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﻿Title: Gabriele Rossetti - A Versified Autobiography
Author: Rossetti, Gabriele
Language: English
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_This Edition consists of
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_No._ 97
S & Co
GABRIELE ROSSETTI
[Illustration: DRAWING BY GABRIELE ROSSETTI
_Pen and Sepia_]
GABRIELE ROSSETTI
A VERSIFIED AUTOBIOGRAPHY
TRANSLATED
AND SUPPLEMENTED BY
WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI
Così dall’arpa opposti suoni ei desta
Pel suol che gli diè culla un suon d’affanno
Di gioia un suon per quel che asil gli presta
G R
SANDS & CO
12 BURLEIGH STREET STRAND
LONDON
1901
DEDICATED TO
ANTONIO AND OLIVIA AGRESTI
WHOSE MARRIAGE HAS RESTORED
TO ITALIAN NATIONALITY
A GRAND-DAUGHTER OF
GABRIELE ROSSETTI
PREFACE
IN Italy the poems of Gabriele Rossetti have enjoyed a large amount of
celebrity, and they are still held in honoured remembrance; his prose
works are there known rather by rumour than in perusal. In England
the case of the prose works is much the same, while the poems are as
good as unknown. His life has never been written on any very complete
scale. In Italian there are some Memoirs, more or less detailed and
accurate--perhaps the most solid is that written by my cousin Teodorico
Pietrocola-Rossetti; in English, the nearest approach to an account of
him may be what appears in the course of my _Memoir of Dante Gabriel
Rossetti_ (1895). There is also some important information in the
book, _John Hookham Frere and his Friends_, mentioned on p. 132 of the
present volume.
The name of Gabriele Rossetti has in this country secured some amount
of respectful regard, but rather on adventitious than on strictly
personal grounds. He is contemplated in his paternal relation--the
father of Dante Gabriel and Christina Rossetti. Dr Garnett, in his
_History of Italian Literature_, has expressed the point neatly, and
in terms stronger than it would behove me to use: “Rossetti assuredly
will not be forgotten by England, for which he has done what no other
inhabitant of these isles ever did, in begetting two great poets.”
On me it can be no less than a filial obligation to do what I can
for the memory of my patriotic, highly gifted, laborious, and loving
father. I therefore offer to the British public the following authentic
record of him, and leave it to obtain such readers as it may.
W. M. ROSSETTI.
LONDON, _January 1901_.
CONTENTS
PAGE
GABRIELE ROSSETTI--Autobiography, etc. 1
Life in Italy 6
Life in Exile--Malta and England 60
APPENDIX
1.--FROM SIX LETTERS FROM GABRIELE ROSSETTI TO
HIS WIFE
A--Letter of 4 May 1831 117
B ” 15 May 1832 119
C ” 29 May 1832 122
D ” 6 September 1836 126
E ” 21 October 1836 129
F ” 21 August 1848 130
2.--FROM EIGHT LETTERS FROM GABRIELE ROSSETTI
TO CHARLES LYELL, KINNORDY
A--Letter of 29 October 1831 133
B ” 1 October 1832 134
C ” 15 May 1833 136
D ” 13 January 1836 137
E ” 14 January 1836 139
F ” 16 December 1836 140
G ” 21 July 1840 141
H ” 1 February 1842 143
3.--FROM THREE LETTERS FROM SEYMOUR (BARONE)
KIRKUP TO GABRIELE ROSSETTI
A--Letter of 12 September 1840 144
B ” 14 September 1841 147
C ” 5 February 1843 150
4.--LETTERS (OR EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS) FROM
GIUSEPPE MAZZINI--ELEVEN TO ROSSETTI, AND
ONE TO ANOTHER CORRESPONDENT
A--Letter of 28 March 1841 157
B ” 1841? 159
C ” November 1844? 160
D ” May 1845? 161
E ” 31 October 1845 162
F ” January 1847? 163
G ” January 1847? 163
H ” 8 February 1847 164
I ” May 1847? 165
J ” February 1848? 167
K ” November 1848? 168
L ” To Corso--1846? 168
5.--SIX POEMS BY GABRIELE ROSSETTI
A--Ad Amore 174
B Versi d’Amore 177
C Aurora del 21 Luglio del 1820 177
D Addio alla Patria 182
E San Paolo in Malta--Canto Improvvisato 186
F Napoleone a Sant’Elena 191
INDEX OF NAMES 193
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. FAC-SIMILE OF AN EARLY DRAWING BY
GABRIELE ROSSETTI, pen and sepia, made
as a title-page to some of his MS. poems.
_Circa_ 1804. See p. 11 _Frontispiece_
2. GABRIELE ROSSETTI--from the oil-portrait
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti now belonging
to Sir Leonard Lyell, Bart.--1848 _To face p._ 1
3. GAETANO POLIDORI--from a pencil-drawing
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, done in 1853,
the same year when Polidori died, aged 89 ” 85
4. CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI--from a
pencil-drawing by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
_Circa_ 1846 ” 89
5. FRANCES MARY LAVINIA ROSSETTI, with her
daughters Maria Francesca and Christina
Georgina--from a photograph. _Circa_ 1855 ” 115
6. GABRIEL CHARLES DANTE (called Dante
Gabriel) and WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI--from
a water-colour sketch by Filippo
Pistrucci. _Circa_ 1838 ” 130
[Illustration: GABRIELE ROSSETTI
_From the Oil-Portrait by Dante Gabriel Rossetti_
1848]
GABRIELE ROSSETTI
AS the career of Gabriele Rossetti was much mixed up with political and
dynastic events in the Kingdom of Naples (or of the Two Sicilies), it
may be as well at starting to give a very brief _résumé_ of historical
facts.
In the year 1734 the Kingdom of Naples, in the resettlement of Europe
consequent upon the Treaty of Utrecht, was under the dominion of the
Empire, or, as we should now word it, of Austria; but in that year an
almost bloodless conquest brought-in a different dynasty. Charles,
Duke of Parma, a son of the Bourbon King of Spain, Philip V., by his
second wife Elizabeth Farnese, a spirited youth only seventeen years
of age, determined to assert his ancestral claims upon the kingdom,
and in a trice he was firmly seated upon the Neapolitan throne. His
government, though in a sense despotic, was popular and enlightened. In
1759 he became by succession King of Spain; and, under the obligation
of existing treaties, he relinquished the Kingdom of Naples to his
third son, Ferdinand, aged only eight. In 1768 Ferdinand married Maria
Caroline, daughter of the Emperor Francis and of Maria Theresa, and
sister of Marie Antoinette.
Ferdinand IV., as he was then termed (afterwards Ferdinand I.) was a
man of no great ability, but of vigorous physique, and sufficiently
well-disposed as a sovereign; his wife, strong-minded and domineering,
was the more active governor of the two, and promoted various
innovations, some of which fairly counted as reforms. Things went on
well enough for the rulers and the subjects until the outbreak of the
French Revolution in 1789, when Neapolitan opposition to France and
all things French became pronounced. Queen Caroline naturally did not
relish the decapitation of her sister in 1793, and hostilities against
the Republic ensued. In 1798 the king decamped to Sicily, and in the
following year his continental dominions became the “Parthenopean
Republic.” This was of short duration, January to June 1799. The
Southern provinces rose in arms, under the leadership of Cardinal
Ruffo; the French army departed, and Ferdinand was re-installed in
Naples--Lord Nelson, victorious from the Battle of the Nile, playing
a large part, and a much-debated one, in this transaction. Ferdinand
now ruled with great rigour, and committed some barbaric acts of
repression and retaliation, for which his consort was regarded as
gravely responsible. The great Napoleon, Consul, Emperor, and King of
Italy, was not likely to tolerate for long the anti-French severities,
demonstrations, and intrigues, of “il Rè Nasone,” as Ferdinand was
nicknamed in virtue of his portentously long and prominent nose. Early
in 1806 Ferdinand and Caroline disappeared once more into Sicily, under
British protection, and Joseph Bonaparte was enthroned in Naples.
Joseph, in 1808, was transferred to the Spanish kingdom; and Joachim
Murat, brother-in-law of Napoleon and of Joseph by his marriage with
their sister Caroline, reigned in Naples in his stead. Ferdinand, with
the other Caroline, remained meanwhile unattackable in Sicily, and
was turned into a constitutional king there by British predominance.
In 1815, on the final collapse of the Napoleonic _régime_, and very
shortly after the death of his Queen, he returned to Naples.
These particulars, meagre as they are, seem to be sufficient to
show what was the historical background to the fortunes of Gabriele
Rossetti, with whom alone I am directly concerned. He was born under a
recently-established dynasty, in a kingdom of despotic rule and many
relics of feudalism; from the age of twenty-three to thirty-two he was
the subject of a new and intrusive dynasty, not less despotic, but free
from all trammels inherited from the past. Then in 1815 he again came
under the old system, but in a state of public feeling and aspiration
which rapidly led to a constitutional government, sworn to by the
sovereign, and abolished by him at the first opportunity.
I propose to relate my father’s life in his own verse as translated
by me, supplemented by a little of my prose. It was towards the year
1850, when his general health and strength had grievously decayed,
and he was conscious of the imminent approaches of death, that he
composed a versified autobiography, of which the great majority is
here embodied. He wrote it in rhymed sextets; but I, for ease and
literality, have rendered it into blank verse. His own verse is, as he
himself acknowledges, here pitched in a very subdued key, with little
endeavour after poetic elevation; though there are some passages in a
higher strain. My translation makes still less pretension as poetry; it
conveys the sense with strict accuracy, and that is all it affects. My
father retained in his old age some of the habits of “poetic diction”
which had been customary in the Italy of his youth; and one finds here
more than one quite wants of Phœbus, Neptune, Minerva’s fane, and other
“rattle-traps of mythology” (to borrow a phrase from William Blake); in
all this I follow my original. The versification of the Italian text is
often ingenious, and even masterly; abounding in dactylic line-endings,
or _rime sdrucciole_, as the Italians call them--a difficult feat, at
which Rossetti was uncommonly deft. I have given the great bulk of the
production--which, indeed, I had in the first instance translated in
full; but eventually I thought some passages here and there, and also
some amplifications of phrase, useless for the purposes of the British
reader, and have therefore excluded them. The whole of the expressly
biographical matter is preserved. Those notes which are not marked by
an initial are my father’s own; those to which “W.” is appended are
mine--there being several points which seemed to need some explanation.
My material does not call for much division or subdivision. I shall
therefore simply separate it into the Life of Gabriele Rossetti (his
full Christian names were Gabriele Pasquale Giuseppe) in Italy, and
his Life in Exile, Malta and England; and, plunging at once into the
versified autobiography, I commence the
LIFE IN ITALY
I know my fame will have but scanty flight,
Readers to whom I speak of Italy.
Yet, if in any of you there rose a wish
To know me who I am, I’ll meet it here.
Ovid’s own native soil is mine as well:
He spoke about himself, and so will I.
In verses Ovid wrote, but I in prose--
Prose of eleven syllables with rhymes;
But, be they verses, I shall not contest.
And, without more preamble, hear me now.
Along the beach of the Frentani lies
On teeming hills, the Adriatic near,
A small municipality of Rome--
Histonium once and Vasto now ’tis called.
There, with no waft of Fortune, I received
A humble cradle from a worthy pair.[1]
The brief statement of my father, in his verses and his note, may be
slightly extended. Nicola Rossetti was a blacksmith and locksmith; his
wife, Maria Francesca Pietrocola, was the daughter of a shoemaker. Both
families seem to have held a creditable, though certainly a by no means
distinguished, position in the small Vastese community. The original
name of the Rossetti race (as I have heard my father more than once
affirm) was not Rossetti but Della Guardia. Some babies in the Della
Guardia family were born with red or reddish hair (I presume, four
or five generations before my father’s birth); and the Vastese--who,
like other Italians, never lose a chance of calling people by
nicknames--termed them “the Rossetti”--_i.e._ “The Little Reds,”
and this continued to serve as surname for their progeny. Thus the
surname Rossetti may be regarded as equivalent to the English surname
Reddish, or Rudkins (if Rudkins is an abbreviation of Ruddykins). The
family of Della Guardia still exists in Vasto. It appears to have
been entitled to bear a crest--which is a sturdy-looking tree, with
the motto “Frangas non flectas”; for a seal (still in my possession),
showing this crest and motto, was delivered to Gabriele Rossetti, on
his quitting Vasto in youth, by his elder brother the Canon Andrea,
who told him that it was the family-device. This was often used, I may
add, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. It appears that in the Rossetti line,
or else in the Della Guardia line, there must have been some degree
of literary eminence prior to the date of the blacksmith Nicola; as
I find, in a letter addressed by Gabriele Rossetti, towards 1807, to
his elder brother Domenico, the phrase: “You know that our stock has
always abounded in great men of letters.” One cannot suppose that this
statement is a mere fib: I have not, however, found any confirmation of
it in books about Vasto, nor do I remember that my father ever referred
to such a matter by word of mouth.
I believe that Nicola Rossetti came to his end in a distressing way.
When the French Republican army invaded the Neapolitan territory in
1798, the troops required Nicola to render some service, such as
horseshoeing, provisioning, transport, or what not. He showed no
inclination to comply, and was beaten or otherwise ill-treated; and
this so preyed on his mind that his health suffered, and death ensued.
His decease may, I presume, have occurred towards 1800; his widow
survived till 1822 or some such date. Gabriele Rossetti used to speak
with much affection of his mother, who (like so many Italian women of
the lower middle class in those days) could neither write nor read. He
remembered his father as a somewhat harsh man, but upright and worthy
of respect. The Rossetti family is now wholly extinct, save in the
persons of myself and my four children; the line of my father’s married
sisters is also extinct.
The precise date of my father’s birth was 28th February 1783 (not
1st March, as has at times been written and printed). He was born in
a lofty brown building, which, in a water-colour with which I was
favoured towards the date of the Vastese centenary celebration of his
birth, wears a somewhat stately though wholly unadorned aspect. It
looks like an edifice which has stood for some centuries, solid but
uncared for. It is now, I understand, a dilapidated structure, let
out in tenements to a poor class of people. The question of buying
it for the city of Vasto, in memory of Gabriele Rossetti, has often
been mooted, but not carried into effect. There are prophets who have
no honour in their own country; and others who, rather profusely
honoured there by word of mouth, are left in the lurch when deeds and
subscriptions are in demand.
In the first opening years of joyousness
I showed clear sign of studious aptitude;
And, following my brothers, three in count,
Whose lively parts had been in evidence,
I was escorted by this goodly three
Into Apollo’s and Minerva’s fane.[2]
Thrilled by the first Phœbean impulses,
Rough versicles I traced with facile hand:
And yet, to my surprise, those lines of mine
Almost took wing into a distant flight.
A hope of Pindus did I hear me named:
But praise increased my ardour, not my pride.
And yet some vanity there came and mixed
With the fair issue of my preluding:
But, all the more I heard the applause increase,
With equal force did study grow in me.
Not surely that I tried to load my page
With pomp abstruse extraneous to my drift;
But counterwise each image and each rhyme,
The more spontaneous, so meseemed more fair.
In trump of gold and in the oaten pipe
Let some seek the sublime, I seek for ease.
I shunned those verses which sprawl forth untuned
Even from my days of schoolboy tutelage:
I know they please some people, but not me:
Admiring Dante, Metastasio
I laud; and hold--a true Italian ear
Must not admit one inharmonious verse.
Some lines require a very surgeon’s hand
To make them upon crutches stand afoot.
So be they! But, to set them musical,
They must, by Heaven, be in themselves a song.
This seems a truthful, not a jibing, rule--
Music and lyric are a twinborn thing.
Yet think not that I deem me satisfied
With upblown empty sound without ideas:--
Then will a harmony be beautiful
When great emotions and great thoughts it stirs.
To painting with an equal ardency
An almost sudden impulse led me on;
And with the pen I drew in such a mode
That all my work would look as if engraved.
To question what I say would nothing serve,
For on my hands more than one proof remains.[3]
A plaining ditty which describes my state,
And wherein I deplore my fate perverse,
And whose adorning is two pen-designs,
Is still preserved among my earliest scraps:
And many more, for him who disbelieves,
Can thoroughly attest what I aver.
Not every magnate takes to banqueting,
Or lust of Cyprus and Pentapolis.
The Marchese di Vasto, a high-placed lord,
The King of Naples’ Majordomo in Chief
(Whatever face he show in history,
By me his memory must be always blest),
Being once in company with men of mark
Whom he was wont to invite from time to time,--
My verses read by him, and drawings seen--
Felt pleased that I was of his vassalage;
He wrote to his agent telling him of this
And bidding him to send me on to Naples.[4]
There I was patronized, without parade,
By him, who from the first received me well:
But little did that firm support endure,
For a political whirlwind cut it short.
Poor I--how fare in a vast capital?
I had to bow before my destinies.
For scarcely had a year and month elapsed,
In which new studies occupied my mind,
When the French army of invasion came
In the sixth year of this our century,--
And, seeking Sicily in urgent flight,
The Marquis vanished with the perjured King.
Then for the kingdom rose an altered time,
And all the people vied to give it hail,
For they abhorred that Bourbon void of faith,
With executions and with treasons smirched,--
And more his wife, a type unparagoned,
Megæra, Alecto, and Tisiphone.
I will not paint that husband and his wife--
Thank Heaven, the tomb has swallowed them ere now.
Their grandson--this suffices--pairs them both,
Re-named King Bomba, monster in human form.
On saddened brows a few, and many glad,
I read the souls of men enslaved or free:
And, mixed myself ’mid such conflicting minds,
Judge you if I was joyful or was grieved.
The festive thundering of the martial forts
Responded to by frequent trumpet-call,
Cheers that were uttered by a thousand mouths
As the tricoloured banner came in view,
And hurly-burly weltering all around,
Opposed enormous joy to enormous grief.
Yet thoughts, more than enough, ominous and black,
Whispered me somewhile ’mid those shouts of joy:
“My hapless country, what dost thou acclaim,
Now that one despot goes and one arrives?
Ah on thy shoulders still I find the yoke:
They doff the old one and they don the new.”
And from my heart the words leapt to my lips:
“To call this liberty were sure a jibe!
As Ferdinand in Naples stifled her,
So Bonaparte butchered her in France.
But tremble, tremble, impious man! Thy crime
On all the nations’ hearts stands written deep.”
I was a prophet here. Germany in arms,
A nation of great hearts and thought as great,
Avenging Freedom foully done to death,
Against him let whole populations loose.
Behold him fallen on field, captive at sea:
By Liberty he rose, by her he fell.
France in my youthful fervency I loved,
I loved the awful warrior guiding her:
But, when I heard, “He’s made an Emperor now,
Nor that alone, but despot autocrat,”
The hate I felt extinguished all that fire.
For many ’twas a cause of deepest grief
To contemplate with golden diadem
A brother of that despot on our throne.
His praise was--having turned the Bourbon out;
Whence, setting every other thought at rest,
They all applauded him, and so did I.
A chosen band of daring souls and brave
Encircled the incoming Frenchman round,[5]
And of two evils they acclaimed the less,
Awaiting a true good to come one day.
Round the new sceptre flocking now I marked
A crowd of shining minds, and joyed herein;
And, taking up the lyre resolvedly,
Inly I said: “A poet I was born,
And such I will be in my future course!”[6]
The use of reason scarce had I attained
When France’s thundercloud I heard that pealed--Which
next diffused around and far-afar
Terror to Kings, to nations hopefulness.
At dawning of my lifetime I resolved
To follow in that movement--and alas!
From the successive shiftings of the chance,
I, loving good, saw evil that ensued.
Across the Red Sea, sea of blood and war,
Must then the Promised Land be still approached?
That fatal whirlwind, with alternate shock,
In Naples’ kingdom all-deplorable
Full ten times made a change of government,
Alternating with serfdom liberty:
And, with the flight of that demented court,
I saw it for the fourth time altering:
And the ninth change and tenth, which now I see,
Are the most miserable of them all.
Many gave homage to the new-built throne;
And I, while scorning any cringing phrase,
Struck on my lyre, and spread abroad its sound,
Saluting that forthcoming period:
And what I said thereof in varying style,
If not free-toned, is not subservient.
Soon do the accents of my lyre recall
Men’s eyes and praises to the youthful gift,
And I diffuse the firstlings of my fame
About the kingdom’s mighty capital;
But, by attracting blear-eyed rivals too,
Envy first made me a target for her darts.
And so much did this trouble my repose,
And raised hobgoblins such a swarm at home,
That, freed from them, my dolorous exile
Has almost seemed to me beatitude.
How often have I cried--“I am exiled now,
And pardon all the rancour of my foes.”
Ah when I think it o’er I shudder still,
Though past the sixtieth limit of my years.
One Boccanera, livid in his rage,
Tempted a bravo to cut short my life;
Watchful I had to be for several months:
Can then insensate envy reach to this?
But who can tell all the contorted roads
Which rancour led my rivals to pursue?
Charges unjust, anonymous calumnies,--
But yet my innocence o’erthrew them all:
Intrepid I outfaced such keen attacks,
And became known and cherished by the young.
In public halls, where it behoved me at times
To speak the verses I had written down,
The popular applause served to prelude
My song, as soon as I appeared in sight.
That my first volume, as it issued forth,
Earned me the friendship of distinguished men,
And I was made, without soliciting,
The Poet for San Carlo’s Theatre.
I wrote some dramas there, and every one
Of my attempts was followed by success:
First Julius Sabinus’ mournful fate,
Then Hannibal’s light loves in Capua,
And finally the Birth of Hercules,[7]
Were greeted with unanimous applause.
How much I joyed that on that stately stage
My mind was thus allowed to spatiate!
“In this arena of glory,” I would say,
“If I have genius, I can show it forth”;
And dreamed of mingling in one dulcet draught
Alfieri’s style with Metastasio’s.
But my illusions waned; for various thwarts,
And fetters both direct and indirect,
And the composers and the Managers,
And Prime Donne, plots, and etiquettes,
And then protectors and aught stranger still,
Frequently shuffled all my hand of cards.
Incensed I cried: “I’ll leave the Theatre,
For here I’m nothing but a slave of slaves.”
To Monsignor Capecelatro I sped,
Our Minister at the time for Home-affairs,
And meekly spoke, expounding first the facts,
“The Madhouse is not where I want to go.”
Could vanity from sovereign patronage
Dazzle a free Parnassian intellect?
I was content with a subordinate post[8]
Then vacant in the King’s Museum; here
Propitious did the Muses nurture me
With vivid genius of the antique arts.
Here I could pasture in the selfsame hour
My craving mind, and shelter it from vice,
For an immense choice library is joined
To the Museum, in one building’s span:
And thus a double discipline exalts
My soul in beauty’s pathways and in truth’s.
’Mid living bronze and marble animate,
Which constantly held converse with my thoughts,
I something wrote in prose and much in verse,
Evolving grace upon the fair and true.
Staying amid those admirable hoards,
A treasure-house of arts and industries,
I met with Kings and met with Emperors,
Conspicuous artists, men of lettered fame.[9]
And thus three lustres of my term of life
Wore in that unperturbed abode along;
And I beheld two Kings arrive and go,
Made and unmade by force of destiny.
But, though my work was converse with the dead,
I scanned both courts, their virtues and their vice.
Of the two kings, one bad, and one was good,
And in this sentence all is summarized;
And both their fates depended, and their thrones,
Upon the man who dreamed omnipotence;
But by the Spanish and the Northern storm
The star of Bonaparte turned to pale.
Odious to many, Joseph went his way,--
That silence followed him which speaks for much;
Wasteful and lustful and vainglorious,
He by his courtiers only was deplored.
Better than Ferdinand he was for sure,
But that was merit (merit!) none could miss.
Later when Joachim of a sudden fled,
I heard a general chorus of concern--
“If but his mind were equal to his heart,
Who worthier than he to fill a throne?”
Ferdinand matched with him produces that
Which in a picture gives the shades and lights.
O epoch memorable for wretchedness!
Oh the caprice of barbarous destiny
Which sent us back that faithless Ferdinand,
Bereaving us of kindly Joachim!
And soon the craven to the valiant gave,
By the same destiny, a barbarous death.
O Bonaparte, _thou_ the object deemed
Of worship? Ah he lies who calls thee great![10]
For thee the world claims lofty intellect,
For thee, with an enormous error fooled.
Thou wast, in wresting from the nations hope,
At once liberticide and suicide.
That day when thou didst will thee Emperor,
Thou in St Helena dugg’st out thy grave:
That day thou gav’st back Austria all her strength,
To Russia daring, potency to Kings.
That edict which the applauding Senate brought
To thee, ’twas that the edict of thy death.
Well do I know how scheming sycophants
Proclaimed the day auspicious and of joy;
But that day sowed the mournfulness of years
For thee and thine, for nations, for the world.
And thou, of piercing sight, thou saw’st it not?
By God, a mole would not have failed to see!
For thee I weep not, who in long-drawn throes
Didst reach convulsive to thy latest hour;
But for the innocent nations weep I fain,
Who, by thy hand betrayed, are moaning still.
Ever have I been prone to pardoning thee
Thy proper anguish, but not that of man.
But for that crime by which thou didst indue
Thee with vast shame and us with sorrows vast,
How long ago would Europe have beheld,
One after other, low her tyrants sunk!
When I the effect contemplate of thy crime,
I am tempted to exclaim--Be thou accurst!
Receive the judgment of the centuries--
I seem to hear it sounding o’er thy grave--
“Thou couldst have been the tyrants’ death-dealer,
And chosest for thyself a despot’s name.
As the keen-cutting vengeful sword of God,
Let wrong thou didst to others fall on thee!”
Now the Queen-city, Joachim being gone,
Remained uncertain of her future fate;
And, like death’s messenger, the cry arose--
“Ferdinand hastens back, and Caroline”:
And on a thousand gloomy brows one read
More horror than for earthquake or the plague.
And of those two the most terrific things
I heard a hundred hundred tongues narrate.
Some travelled, some escaped, some hid themselves,
And one was known to have gone mad with fear:
But hope, I saw, had halfway been revived
When it was published--“Caroline is dead.”
Yes, more than halfway; for they all averred:
“This Bourbon, in himself, is weak and null;
And, if he did become so black a wretch,
’Twas that she-Fury who impelled him on:
Now that she’s foundered in the realms of night,
A human being he may be once more.”
And so it proved. The first-imagined fears
Were cleared away from the most troubled minds,
And all perceived that on a better plan
That richly-gifted Kingdom would be ruled,
And would attain, under a milder curb,
If not prosperity, at least repose.
The Aonian chorus revelled in the peace,
And chaunted amid others’ songs my own.
Our Ferdinand the Fourth was just a fiend,
But, dubbed the First, he wears an angel’s grace.
And I beheld that festive ardour grow,
The less expected, all the livelier.
’Tis true so much rejoicing was perturbed,
In almost every confine of the realm,
By feverish epidemic, Noja’s plague,
And, worst of all, a longsome year of dearth:
But still the King dictated remedies,
And, if he could no more, he sympathized.
Then, when he sickened, weighted now with years,
And the severe disease seemed past a cure,
So great the sorrow everywhere appeared
That all the civil orders shared in it;
And, when fair daylight followed on the cloud,
The joy was equal to the genuine grief.
In style now classic or romantic now
Native Academies acclaim the event;
And I, in verse extemporized almost
(And Fame still guerdons it with some applause),
Saluted, in the name of Italy,
The Bourbon Sovereign restored to health.[11]
One Gallo (maybe Corvo?), of Sicily,
Who thought himself a swan of Hippocrene--
Or Gallo or Corvo, acrid and malign--
Trying to do me an ill turn, did a good.
And this affair I’m minded to narrate,--
A curious little story as it is.
He spread on all sides a censorious croak
That my address was outrage ’gainst the King:
And yet that ode contains such flatteries
That, when I now reflect on it, I blush;
And _he_ discerned therein, and clamoured loud,
An actual insult in the seeming praise.[12]
Against my verses such a cackle-cry
Was raised by him on one and other hand
That in the end our arbitrary Police
Prohibited their printing in the book;
And many said that I should find myself
Dismissed my employ, or sent to jail perchance.
The selfsame calumnies against my song,
From quarters more than one, arrived in court.
The King called for a copy, and, reading it,
He was affected, and was moved to tears.
The Duke of Ascoli was on the spot,
Who with minuteness told me of the facts.
Indeed the King so highly prized my lines
That he directed the Home-Minister
To have me summoned, and to give me thanks
In a dispatch sent by the government:
And, paper in hand, he added--“Tell him too,
I wept at it, and feel indebted to him.”
Further to crush that shameless calumny
Which he remarked some people still believed,
He made the Minister Tommasi read
The poem aloud, in Council at the full,--
And oh what plaudits did my lines secure!
And at some parts the King shed tears anew.
I, then at the Museum, saw arrive
A Halberdier with grave and serious mien.
Ah what uncertainties assailed my heart!
Here comes the announcement that will strip me bare!
I read, in doubt and wavering, the dispatch:
“His Majesty requires you--come at once.”
Anxious I sped, and pondered on the way
What answer I could offer to the charge.
I entered with that sinister forecast,
And General Naselli, a Minister,
Came forward and encountered me, all smiles.
He said “Be seated”--pointing with his hand
To a gilded sofa, face to face with him.
He, turning with an affable regard
Toward me, my eyebrows arching with surprise,
Repeats, with manifest complacency,
The kindly words used by the Sovereign:
And on my countenance he could observe,
Mingled with pleasure, some astonishment.
I answered--after a simple preluding
With which I need not here concern myself--
“This moment compensates for studious years,--
I’m thankful for the kindness of our King.
But, Sir, is any power above his own?
What he so much approves others reject.”
He answered me with an offended air--
“Have you your senses? This I can’t excuse.”
And I: “The whole collection is in print,
And my one poem only turned adrift;
My senses serve me well, your Excellency:
The Censorship has over-ruled the King.”
He smiled, and then, in a laconic tone,
Dictated to his secretary thus:
“The poems all must pass the censorship,
Except the one by Gabriel Rossetti.
From his the printing cannot be withheld,
Because the King has passed it and approved.”
I showed about all this no great conceit,
But it was greeted warmly by the young,
And that Sicilian Gallo, envious man,
Remained a laughing-stock, and drooped his comb.[13]
Then, when my lyric came to public light,
It won in Naples universal praise.
The fame of it went forth to Rome itself,
Where I am proud of being amply known,
For there I left a band of well-wishers
When the Provisional Government dissolved
In which I unobtrusively had held
In the Fine Arts a post of eminence.[14]
And the Sebezia Academy with pride
Noted my victory, which involved its own,
And which was viewed with so much bitterness
By Gallo that he fled that very night.
This Gallo against me, an exile now,
Perhaps is crowing still--which I forgive.
In that Parthenopean Company
I sang the Threnody for several dead,
And for the saintly Bruno d’Amantea,
The noble surgeon and philanthropist;[15]
And good Valletta, on coming back from Rome,
And fair Paloma, did I celebrate.[16]
And in the presence of the royal court,
Which had erected a majestic tomb,
I sang the glory and deplored the death
Of the renowned Giovanni Paisiello,[17]
Who, the harmonic Siren’s progeny,
Bore sway o’er Europe’s music on the stage.
Torquato Tasso’s golden trumpet next
Blew with my breath, to magnify himself,[18]
He mine inspirer from the living stone
Which near the sea the King had raised for him;
And on that evening the Sebezia
Brought from all Europe choicest guests to meet.
There the good King of Denmark’s worthy heir
Came to embrace me ’mid a crushing throng;[19]
And with my daring images I struck
French, Russians, Germans, Spaniards, Englishmen.
And now in Sapphic now in Theban mood,
I sang beside the urn, with laurel wreathed,
Wherein Luigi Quattromani sleeps,[20]
A casket from the Bible’s treasure-stores:
In him I greeted, and I bless him now,
The kindly master in the social friend.
Truly a poet--I seem to see him still--
Inspired himself, inspiring others too:
When blind and old, he in his mind preserved
Acutest sight and lively youthfulness.
I interrupt the verse-narrative for a moment, to point out that
Rossetti here recounts--what was of leading importance in his
Neapolitan career--how he came to be an improvising poet. Luigi
Quattromani was a renowned improvisatore, and (so far as I infer)
little or not at all an author of verse written and published. The date
when Rossetti first knew him, and soon afterwards began improvising,
is not here defined; I suppose it may have been towards 1810. When my
father came to London in 1824 he resolved not to prolong the practice;
thinking, and no doubt rightly, that, although he might excite some
surprise and attention by improvising, it would on the whole lower his
position as a serious professional man in the teaching and literary
vocation. Yet he did occasionally give a specimen of his prowess as an
extempore poet; the latest notice I find of such a performance was in
his family-circle, in 1840. If I myself ever heard him improvise, I
have forgotten it. The observations which he here makes on the dangers
of the habit, both to health and to purity of poetic style, are worth
noting. He first proceeds with a description of Quattromani’s doings.
Whenso I heard him touch on David’s harp,
All fervid with extemporaneous power,
Upon his face shone out the impassioned soul
Which spread around spontaneous bursts of light.
And that same flame I saw a-shine in him
On mine own spirit did I feel descend.
Yes, what I heard meseemed not possible;
’Twas ecstasy to me, enchantment, dream.
But what appeared incredible almost
Was coming to be realized in myself.
On my way home I tried to do the like,
And oh astonishment! I also sang
Line after line: so strange the upshot seemed
That I renewed the essay for several days.
By daytime and by night assiduously
Did I repeat that same experiment.
Often with Quattromani I conferred,
Who gave my verses not a little praise;
And once the blind old man exclaimed to me--
“Alternate with me in an improvise.”
And, after a few trials and demands,
He took me up with so much ardent zest
That ’mid the pomp of images produced
He gave me many a “viva” from his heart.
He closed by saying: “For poetic strifes
Nature has given you athletic power.”
“Persist,” he often said to me, “persist,
And let no sloth impede you on your road.
A poet you were born, and those who seek
To change your course--believe this--envy you.
What you at your commencement do with me
Might seem the fruit of lengthy studying.”
And often did our verses alternate
In choice assemblies with co-equal praise,
So much men’s judgments wavered in the scales
That ’twixt us victory remained in doubt.
But this impressed on me the stamp of worth--
What honour to contend with such a man!
He, like a living mirror, faces me,
And, seeing myself in him, I can but grieve.
He old and blind, and I too blind and old:
And he died poor, and I am dying poor.
But which of us the more deplorable?
He in his country, I exiled by fate!
Oft on this foreign shore I’ve asked myself,
Did my addiction to extempore song
Harm me, or profit? I remain in doubt.
But this, without nice solving, I’ll affirm--
I was becoming palsied and in spasms.
A Galen’s rigour ought to cry it down,
And thus prevent so miserable an end.
’Twas so my Brother Dominick expired,[21]
Who in such efforts was expert and apt.
I never heard that brother of mine recite--
He left me a child, but I remember him;
And well I know that he at Parma’s bar
Was greeted as a re-born Cicero.
Youthful he died, far from his family--
And wherefore died? Because he improvised.
More than one symptom has convinced me clear
That, through my leaving off that exercise,
Exile, in that alone, has been my friend:
And so, from much reflection I can say,
That mental strain leads to paralysis.
Nor only with regard to healthful life
Makes it the nerves uncertain and unstrung,
But as to writing with correctness too
I fear at last it worsens toward neglect.
Yes, that it harms the style I can but think:
To work a-sudden is not working well.
Thou who wouldst merit the Phœbean wreath,
O youth, take caution ’gainst this same abuse;
For these my verses, written slipshod-like,
Perhaps derive from that ill-wont of mine;
For now I hurry verse to follow verse,
And reel them off as ’twere a kind of talk.
Good composition craves a needful space,
Not emulous capricious fantasy.
Though such a practice I cannot defend,
Still I become renowned because of that.
Full many a noted passage from my muse
Was quoted, serious and facetious both;
And oft-times at the tables of the great,
Invited guest and poet, I had my place.
What precious days I wasted on good cheer,
Whence, save keen penitence, I’ve nothing now!
Amid our Princes, Dukes, and Marquises,--
Cassero, Campochiaro, Berio--
Phœbus joined Bacchus with a joyous note,
Doubly to drench the mind’s ebriety.
Inflamed and reckless ’mid the toasts and praise,
I saw my youthful Muse more daring grown;
And, when I went from Naples to the Tiber,
I found my fame there copiously diffused.
Among the poets whom I cherished there,
I give but Biondi’s and Ferretti’s names.[22]
As one of the Provisional Government
King Joachim had summoned me to Rome:[23]
Monte Citorio there, seven months and more,
Saw me employed at morning and at eve;
And I was present at the Pope’s return
In year thirteen of this our century.
And _there_ was likewise put in exercise
My Muse, by urgencies a thousandfold;
And I again aroused enthusiasm,
For poetry in Rome is greatly loved.--
Of this no more, for I can hear a voice--
“To enlarge hereon were obvious self-conceit.”
Nor does Rome stint herself to mere applause,
But gives me titles and diplomas too.
The Arcadia, and Tiberine Academy,
The Ardenti of Viterbo, and others more,
Inscribed my own ’mid many goodly names.
In Naples not of the Sebezia alone
But the Pontanian Society,
And even the Orezia from Palermo,
I hold diplomas in this distant land;
And, now that I am at my day’s extreme,
One also I receive from Lyons in France.
I _was_, not am. The past is all a school
Where clear I see the nothingness of man.
For me has vanished all: only the grave
Awaits me, and thither willingly I go.
Life is a lengthened dream, and, when it ends,
All lettered glory is a dream as well;
And vanity of vanities I mark,
Yea even in that which crowns the highest of men
Had I the golden trump and deathless name
Of Homer, or of Virgil or Torquato,
What would the guerdon of my verses be?
Just a dissyllable I should not hear.
Sad fate!
But I return to Ferdinand,
Auspicious planet to his realm restored.
He, by endowing the Sebezia,
Seemed patron of our country’s intellect;
So that I frequently heard men proclaim--
“Demon he went, and angel he returned.”
But who can ever change the human soul?
He in reverting saw us evermore
As liegemen to himself or to Murat:
The first he greeted with a cheerful mien,
And for the second nursed a secret grudge.
Brothers with brothers he did not unite,
As should have been effected from the first
All the best posts were given away to these,
Though oftentimes unjust and ignorant;
Those others were neglected and depressed,
However honourable and well-informed.
A victim I of such partiality,
Of which the proofs could day by day be seen;
What was my due he gave to some one else.
When Naples to their palace had beheld
From Sicily return the unrighteous court,
In her most famous University
The chair of Eloquence was left unfilled;
And in the ardour of a youthful hope
I too competed ’mid a lettered band.[24]
We numbered thirty-six. Before me I saw
Conspicuous talents, each more strong than I;
And we were set to pass a triple test,
Three different subjects taken out by lot:
Two, writ in the Professors’ presence there,
Who had to be the censors of the themes.
The first was in the language of that Rome
Who gave her laws and usage to the world;
The second, in the tongue of Italy,
Classic in style, and resonant and terse;
Lastly, the third one had to be pronounced
To the assembled public from the chair.
For the two writings, Gatti, Oliva, and I,
Issued with equal credit from the strife:
But in the third and arduous exercise
I gained the victory over all the rest.
Amid the surging and applauding throng,
The Faculty cried many times “Well done!”--
Who got the chair? A certain Bianchi did,
Who had salient merits as a loyalist.
And mice were cutting capers on the forms
Deserted by our youth indignantly.
I vamp up no fantastic notions here:
All Naples can declare it to be true.
The young men, nettled by a noble scorn,
Called _me_ Professor--not the other man;
And I at home opened a private class,
Where I was trainer of some vivid minds:
And, if I thither could return one day,
How many a pupil should I see around!
Ah fervid youth, liege to the beautiful,
Who so did sorrow for mine adverse fate,
Durso, Malpica, Curci, Caccavon,[25]
And others to whose names my bosom beats,
In you I glory; and you, choice grateful souls,
Glory that I your master was erewhile.
The army, by the royal ordinance,
Saw heroes now supplanted by poltroons;
From the tribunals upright judges banned,
And greedy vultures were installed on them;
And, what is worse, the Kingdom’s treasury
By vultures in like manner was devoured.
Likewise a matter so terrific happed
As to fill all the Kingdom with dismay.
Wicked Canosa, back from Sicily,[26]
Invested as the Minister of Police,
Conceived a project truculent and vile,
Enough for Satan’s self to shudder at.
This monster stands by various writers drawn,
And I can be excused from limning him:
Yet, always by the King’s approval graced,
The man’s foul shame reflected on the King.
In every crime he out-did every wretch,
And now he laboured to out-do himself.
He, pondering an atrocious butchery
Which for whole weeks he set to ruminate,
Filled with the loathliest scum the capital,
Offscouring of the gibbets and the hulks;
And at a signal these men were to pounce
On any whom they saw unlike their crew.
That felon was a new Friar Alberic.[27]
Oh the hard fate and outrage of our time!
The Austrian General fathomed this intrigue,
And forced the King to turn the monster out;
Inept Italian princes were and are
The Austrian Sultan’s underling Bashaws.
Escaped from this portentous massacre,
We all denounced it with stentorian lungs.
And what a sort of crime must that have been
Which very Austria spurned!--and truth it is.
’Twas even said the King----But this I scout.
While from the foulness of despotic power
Such nauseous effluvia were diffused,
A patriotic flame wound everywhere,
And a Vesuvius all the Kingdom seemed;
And from the augmented crackling underground
At last erupted many external peals.
Like gushing blood from several arteries
Toward the treasury all the money flowed;
And with our straits our hardihood increased,
So that the government was undermined;
Already many free-souled squadrons thrilled,
Like winds unloosed to agitate the main.
The Carbonari, an unvanquished sect,[28]
A vast re-union of audacious souls,
Spread with a progress irresistible,
As in a wood by winds a tameless fire:
Opening I saw a gulf without confine,
And on the shelving marge the governors slept.
The politicians’ atrabilious brains
Called that great movement faction--shame be theirs!
For, being Carbonari almost all,
The movement may be termed the Kingdom’s own.
The King, who did us wrong with insolence,
Might have avoided it, had he been wise.
Insensate! His commands are ridiculed
Amid the increasing cries which stun the realm.
Besides, the Vardarelli slain by fraud,[29]
Slain Capobianco,[30] all men recollect.
And what the outcome of the treacheries?
“Freedom” was sounded, “Freedom” everywhere.
Not that which, ever hungering for blood,
Like to a Fury rioted in France;
But sacred Freedom, of angelic form,
Who tells the king “Be just,” and harms him not;
Who at the shrine of the metropolis
Soon saw the nation prostrated around.
O Freedom, girdled by the Italian light,
Never did man kneel unto thee so fair:
In vain Vandalic outrage hurled thee down,
For still in thousand hearts thou bear’st the sway.
I for six lustres vow to thee my life,
And, thine apostle, thee announce and preach.
Thou shalt return, return--no frenzy this!
Our century has seen no brighter year,
That year beheld not a more radiant day,
Than that when the symbolic furnaces
Diffused around the burning and the flash:
Those vivid flashes and those fiery heats
Spread light on minds and flame upon the heart.
And now a lofty hope bestows on all
Blest harmony which universal seems,
Because that flame and light can permeate
Through every member of the social frame.
And one could hear a new alliance preached
Of two great forces in a single sway:
Popular liberty and kingly power
Conjoined in amity by a lasting link;
Each one in this serves to ennoble each,--
Itself the nation honours in the king.[31]
Of such mixed government, which Europe seems
To tend to by an impulse from on high,
England possesses much that’s genuine,
But France has only seen its counterfeit.[32]
At that time, to the sound of thousand cheers,
Spain made it simpler, giving it the throne.
With friendly breeze from that re-fashioned scheme
Nations felt joy and princes troublousness;
And Naples, from of old the liege of Spain,
Revelled in rapture inexpressible:
In launching flames on this side and on that
More than volcano seemed the fiery forge.
That selfsame ardour all through Italy
Hurled curses on the shameful Austrian yoke,
When the year twenty, past its midway course,
Felt all the parching of the Syrian Dog:
That heat still swelled the Carbonaro heat,--
The Ausonian Genius blew his trumpet-call.
And to those memorable clangours soon
More than one note replied with sound of joy.
Silvati and Morelli, noble souls,[33]
Hoisted aloft the Italian battle-flag;
And Minichini,[34] of the Nolan church,
Joining them, sanctified the enterprise.
From Nola’s city on to Monteforte
The band of heroes goes determinate:
Their Country guides them, and Humanity,
And twixt these Freedom who salutes the two.
With vast applause the kingdom echoes round:
Only the palace in dismay is dumb.
Terror and rage distract it hour by hour:
Yet troops are sent--but only raise a laugh;
For squadron after squadron joins with those
So as to number a resistless host:
Despotic sway now comes to such a pass
As to appear a corpse mouldering in worms.
O Monteforte, oh the glorious slope
O’er which shone forth the star of liberty!
Like Sinai and Horeb thou’lt be famed,
For on thee the new age was brought to birth.[35]
That hour supreme is present to my soul,
Whereby I live again in youthful prime.
Naples is wavering between hope and fear,
But outside of her walls ’tis only hope.
She for the towns and cities joyously
Assembles troops and arms, and sends them on.
Guglielmo Pepe--and our fear is sped--
Mounts to be captain of the daring hosts.
Hero, all hail! History shall celebrate,
Not thy good fortune, but thy just renown.
And, more than in thy land, in hard exile
Constant wast thou, strong son of Italy.
Proud am I of thy friendship with myself,--
It is the noblest honour of my life.
And I from far cry at the mountain’s base
To that day’s dawn as prompted by a god,
“Lovely indeed art thou with stars in hair
Which like to vivid sapphires scintillate!”[36]
Dawn thou of brightest day!--and that salute
Soon through the whole of Italy re-rings.
But wherefore must I moan, remembering this?
My land, I saw thee throned, thou’rt now i’ the dust:
For thee, my land, these tears,--no tears for me!
And yet Hope comes dictating to my heart:
“From the new mourning shall new joy result;
That which was then achieved is but a seed,--
The goodly seed shall bear a goodly fruit.”
Yes, O ye nations, courage! and expect
From sterile winter lavish summertime.
July’s ninth day is blazing in the heaven,
And to the people’s will the King accedes.
How could I ever fully represent
The immense delight which I beheld around?
The Bourbon King, throned in his gilded seat,
Object of love in such a festival,
With rage in bosom and with joy in face,
Feigns to applaud the good he so detests:
Then on the gospel swears ... ah crime-stained King!
Thou stamp’st the kiss of Judas on the Christ!
O realm betrayed, to which I wailing speak,
Remember that Alfieri has pronounced--
“To make a blameless king, unmake him first”--
And, if a greedy foreigner, all the more.
The deed then wrought was done in righteousness,
’Twas reason’s revolution: all the same,
As if it were the greatest of all crimes
’Twas punished by the Bourbon’s perfidy.
No, such a sacred movement cost to none
A drop of blood, not even a drop of tears.
Ah I remember those nine hurrying months
As though they had been blessed years of fame!
August the Parliament was opened, where
Some Cato, Tully, or Hortensius, pealed.
Activity is witnessed in the fleet,--
Ancient Amalfi seems therein revived.
The manning of the army starts anew,
But with no mixture of a foreign stock;
And warlike squadrons are adjoined to it
Of civic legions and militia-bands.
The strenuous presses creak, and everywhere
The country’s intellect displays its fruits.
My own blood like a burning lava coursed:
Not I, not I, then sang, but Patriot Love!
And, to encourage that heroic race
Which from ancestral ashes came to birth,
Re-echoed did I hark to those his strains
Which he was pleased to utter through my lips:
From women and from children and from all,
Here, there, and up and down, on every hand.[37]
With dulcet and with martial harmony
By the Musician’s skill invested, these,
Sung in all houses and in every street,
Were even quoted in the Parliament;
To their Tyrtæus all the provinces,
As chorus to the coryphee, replied.
All, all was active: Usages and laws
Progressed in union with the newborn rights.
But many of the law-courts had to shut,
For rivalry in virtue lessened crime.
I must here make a little digression, to illustrate this matter of
“Tyrtæus.” It need scarcely be said that Tyrtæus, who flourished about
650 B.C., was a Greek elegiac poet, born in Attica, lame and
misshapen, and totally ignorant of military matters. In the second
Messenian war the Lacedæmonians were directed by the oracle to apply to
the Athenians for a general; and the Athenians (such at least is the
legend, which may be largely discounted without undue scepticism) sent
them Tyrtæus. This looked very like a _mauvaise plaisanterie_, and was
so regarded by the Lacedæmonians; yet the result justified the oracle,
and the Athenians as well. The poet poured forth his strains with such
splendid impulse and vigour that he animated the troops; they abandoned
the idea of raising the siege of Ithome, and thoroughly defeated the
Messenians. “The popularity of these elegies in the Spartan army was
such that it became the custom to sing them round the camp-fires at
night, the polemarch rewarding the best singer with a piece of flesh.”
The term “Tyrtæus of Italy” (Tirteo d’Italia) has been constantly
applied by his countrymen to Gabriele Rossetti. I am not clear when
this practice began, whether before or only after 1846, when Rossetti,
in his _Veggente in Solitudine_, applied the term to _himself_. At
any rate, I had until recently assumed that the phrase had only a
lax application, as indicating that Rossetti, by his declaimed and
published patriotic lyrics, had incited, and would continue to incite,
Italians to combat for liberty and independence. But of late I have
come to the almost confident conclusion that he must have taken a
personal part in the sole military expedition in which the Neapolitan
army sought to maintain the constitution of 1820. This conclusion
is founded upon a letter (in my possession) which a certain Dr
Costanza--to me not otherwise known--addressed to my father on 10th
November 1847. I first read the letter with attention towards 1896, and
I here give a translation of it.
“GIBRALTAR.
“_10th November 1847._
“HONOURED COMPATRIOT,
“Twenty-six years have now passed since we bade one another a last
adieu in the Island of Malta, at the fatal period of ’21. You must
recollect Dr Costanza, then a young physician and surgeon, now
turned of fifty years of age. You had known him in the capital of
the kingdom, and you afterwards met him at Montecassino, _when you
were returning from the gorges of Antrodoca after the hapless result
of that first passage of arms_ upon which depended the fate of our
country. That Costanza is now writing to you, and warmly recommends
to you three fellow-countrymen of ours, recently saved by miracle
from the blood-red hands of the agents of the tyrant of Naples and
Sicily....
“Your Compatriot, and erewhile Companion
in misfortune,
DR COSTANZA.”
In this letter the mention of Antrodoca (or Antrodoco) is the essential
thing. The mountains of Antrodoco are near Rieti, which was the scene
of an engagement, on 7th March 1821, between the Neapolitan and the
Austrian troops. The actual feat of arms was not discreditable to the
Italians; but--perceiving that they were the weaker party, and that
the final issue was hopeless for them--they immediately afterwards
disbanded, and all was over. I cannot indeed, recollect having ever
heard from my father that he was along with the army on that occasion,
nor does he affirm it in his versified Autobiography; yet I now see
that he must have been so. I do not infer that he was in the fighting
ranks; but I do infer that two passages which are to be found in his
_Veggente in Solitudine_ have a more positive meaning than I used to
attribute to them. The passages are as follows:--
1. “Fratelli, all’armi, all’armi!” etc.
“Brothers, to arms, to arms! Our country has summoned us. _I, with my
stimulating songs, will also go among you._”
2. (As already referred to) “Tirteo d’Italia,” etc.
“Who will be the Tyrtæus of Italy in the camp? ’Tis I, ’tis I! _Such I
have been_, such I am.”
The first of these passages comes from a song composed by Rossetti
towards the date of the soldiering in 1821. The second may have been
written about 1845.
I have found one other paper which seems to bear upon this
semi-military act of Gabriele Rossetti. An excellent friend of his,
Ferdinando Ciciloni, wrote to him from Naples on 24th November 1825,
saying: “Three days ago I went to San Sebastiano, which, from the seat
of the Parliament, has become a College of Music. As I crossed the
courtyard, I had a mental vision of Rossetti in uniform, and with two
very black moustaches.” As we have seen (note on p. 36), Rossetti,
though not at all a man of a soldiering turn, had belonged, in 1814,
to the Guard of Internal Security under King Joachim, and once again,
in 1821, he donned a uniform--a British one this time. But Ciciloni’s
remark does not seem very likely to refer to either of these incidents;
rather to something in which the Parliament-building was concerned, and
a muster immediately before the departure of the army to Rieti appears
the most probable occurrence.
Freedom immaculate, O thou who hadst
Such sacred worship on Sebeto’s banks,
Iniquitous plots ’gainst thee, without and in,
The Royal Princes’ visible ill-faith,
Ambition nursed by some few senators,
And envious grudge of many generals,
Engirt thee with the trackless labyrinth
When in thee Heaven was overcome by Hell.
Nor have I in repentance struck my brow
Because my worship of thee wrought me scathe.
Were I in that same case a thousand times,
A thousand I’d return to do the same.
Thee from Christianity I ne’er disjoined,--
I feel my heart-strings quivering to both.
The Bourbon perjury, the Austrian force,
On thee, O sacred Liberty, made war:
And, seeing thy holy worship thus destroyed,
I bade a farewell to the soil profaned,
And so the thundering ship conducted me
Where Christ and Freedom can be both adored.
Name to the world, O sacred Gratitude,
The Scotch-born hero who on British deck
Rescued the singer of Italian hopes
Out of the Bourbon despot’s slaughter-fangs.
Sir Graham Moore,[38] inured to combating
In a great nation’s thundrous lightning-flash,
I bear with an indelible imprint
Thy cherished name written upon my heart.
Those soul-inspired and freedom-loving strains
Intoned by me upon my native soil
On the four winds already had dispread,
O’er mountains and o’er seas, a tireless flight;
And the Britannic Genius, when they reached
His shores, bade Italy’s Tyrtæus hail.
Now my propitious fate had willed it so
That by a lady were my verses read--
A British Admiral’s well-honoured wife,
Whether more fair or gracious who could say?
But this I know--I saw in her combined
Penelope’s heart and Helen’s countenance.
She, worthy partner of the British chief,
Honours in others’ mental gifts her own;
And those who know her know how highly trained
She is, and she alone discerns it not.
To Naples came the lady at the time
When flames burned there of patriotic love,
And she expressed the wish she had conceived
To know the Italian poet face to face;
And with such ardour she admired his work
That numerous verses she could quote by heart.
An English officer, of cultured mind,
Who had always shown me marks of courtesy,
And who in the Museum saw me at whiles,
Made me acquainted with the lady’s wish.
I to the invitation gave response,
And so a day was settled for my call.
She--as a sister might a brother greet
Returning--greeted me in amity;
Yet day by day this kindliness increased.
Fair Angel of God’s presence sent on earth,
Ah not so soon return to Paradise!
Many there circle his eternal throne,
But angels are not plenteous here below.
In all that effervescent period
She, whose good wishes were for our success,
Remained a witness of my innocence,
And an approver of my patriot zeal.
When by the foul effect of treacheries
Our government had perished, she was grieved,
And for unfortunate Rossetti’s fate
She felt concern, and to her husband spoke:
“Save from the axe that guiltless man; if love
Of country is a crime, you are guilty too!”
Alas how hard did exile seem to me,
And leaving in such woes my native land!
Three times he offered refuge on his ship,
And all the three times I rejected it.
But my continuing was so foolhardy
That wiser I accepted it the fourth.
Lamenting night and day my country’s lot,
And as to my own life not caring much,
From March to June I kept myself concealed,
’Mid traps laid by a sleepless-eyed police.[39]
One night I was in that terrific plight,
When a voice called upon my name, and said:
“Fly--I discern your scaffold plain to see!”
I look, and find ’tis General Fardella,
Who was just then the Minister of War;
But, while I am rousing from my wonderment,
The dark receives him--moveless I remain.
Meseems I see him still, the while I write.
He, who so often gave my lines applause,
Had entered furtive in my hiding-place:
But how he found it out I cannot say.
How could I sleep, or hope again for calm?
Within my soul I heard the word--“Fly, fly!”
In perturbations having passed the night,
I to the lady wrote at earliest dawn;
And towards the eve two English subalterns[40]
Most willingly responded to my wish;
And they, to make my move less perilous,
Gave me red uniform resembling theirs.
I on the moment, be it luck or thought
To pass more safely before others’ eyes,
Packed a few clothes and papers many a one
In a small trunk, and was in readiness:
And I exclaimed, twixt joyful heart and grieved,
“I bear with me my all--Ready--let’s go.”
Between the gallant pair I took the coach,
Which drove us forth on our clandestine path[41]
To where a skiff was in await for us,
With six athletic oarsmen on the beach.
O Rochfort,[42] thou to which the naval forts
All paid salute as they before thee passed,
And thundering thou through hundred-fourscore mouths
Didst spread afar thy nautical command,
Thee sinuous the Mediterranean,
And thee vast Ocean’s sheer immensity,
Saw dominating the unstable wave,
And christened thee the Formidable Fort.
Thee from the skiff I see, and feed my glance,
As on artilleried walls, upon thy bows.
The mighty ship gave symptoms of good-will,
Expressed in divers modes by the ample crew;
And I--I kissed that wooden Albion
Amid the naval group who smiled thereat.
To the saloon bright-shining in the dusk
I sped, to give Thetis and Neptune thanks.
“Here is a pair of gods not fabulous,”
I said, when greeted by their noble smiles.
The grace which can forestall a modest wish
I always found on either countenance.
Then in the night I went with saddened soul
To contemplate the shore which met my view.
All are reposing in the silent hour,
Except some watch that paces vigilant;
And I alone and pensive on the prow
Stand communing with this my land betrayed;
And a few happy days and many dire
Are passing in review before mine eyes.
Ever ferocious Tyranny I saw
Becoming stronger by flagitious means;
And Freedom, tasted for a few poor days,
Begetting, like the fruit of Eden, death;
And Treason, like a snake pestiferous,
From two great goblets sipping tears and blood.
And, while my fantasy on every side
Ran riot, struck by miserable ideas,
The scenes of sanguinary Ninety-nine
Offered themselves to my dejected soul;
And o’er the regal lair meseemed I saw
A host funereal of threat’ning ghosts.
“Unhappy country, adieu!”--And that adieu
Over all Italy I diffused in song.[43]
LIFE IN EXILE--MALTA AND ENGLAND
To thee the first the British prow was turned,
Flourishing Malta, small but beautiful,
A quiet refuge ’mid the unquiet sea,
Of an Italian mind and Arab speech.
I, sifting out of fallacies the truth,
Full half a lustre passed within thy bounds;
And, but for patriotic sorrowings,
Out there I should have led a placid life,--
For I encountered courteous, cultured minds,--
Culture in some, in many courtesy.
But both of these--they have my homage here--
I amply in one person found conjoined,
John Hookham Frere, a learned man and wise,
A Privy Councillor of the British Crown.
Himself he shone, not through extraneous aids,
And how I knew him I shall gladly tell.
Fame, so propitious to poetic gifts,
In Malta made a magnified report--
That Italy’s Tyrtæus had arrived,
And rescued by the British Admiral.
And I by many people was informed
That in the higher class the wish prevailed
That in some noted house I should display
My fervour of poetic improvise;
And I, now so suspicious of my powers,
Unhesitating answered--“Yes, at once.”
Ah me unhappy! I’m no more the man!
But such must be the course of human fate.
Too true, I, then a river, am now a rill--
A rill which comes anear to drying up.
In vain I stir my fancy, which is tired,--
I cannot even command poetic phrase.
These verses--let me say this prose in rhyme--
As I dictate them, others write them down,[44]
And, as they all gush out extempore,
Some of them will be good, and others bad:
Nor do I blot the bad to keep the best,
But pass them current as they chance to come.
To get the whole expressed without constraint,
And without labouring after phrase and word,
I pitched on purpose on that sextal rhyme
In which one easily words the thing one wants.
On my assent, a spacious hall prepares
For ladies, men of letters, diplomats.
There that distinguished man enraptured heard
My burst of song ’mid plaudits many and full;[45]
And, being unused to such demonstrances,
He deemed the thing almost a prodigy.
I sang six themes, and my excited mind
Poured copiously divergent styles and rhythms.
Persons of eminence, the following day,
Graced me by visits of civility.
But one beneficent and reverend mien
In which I read exalted characters,
A diction which, arising from the soul,
Goes to the heart, and fixes what it says--
This ’mid the throng I noted. He being gone,
I asked his name--and it astonished me;
For all that I had heard rumoured around
About his talents settled on my thought:
An ample treasure-house of classic lore,[46]
Such did Fame publish him by hundred mouths:
Toward him desire resistless drew me on,
Nor did his presence lessen his repute.
Unconscious of his fame he singly seemed,--
To hear it named was what he could not brook;
Courtesy generous and without display,
Learning immense, and greater modesty;--
Ah who could paint that noble-natured man?
One day when he accorded praise anew
To chaunts of mine which wakened his surprise,
I answered him: “In you I seem to see
The imperial eagle by a sparrow charmed.
I know my verse has earned me banishment;
But I, excelling some, bend low to you.”
And later, when I saw how plenteously
He dealt his succours to the sick and poor,
I in John Hookham Frere discerned the type
Of the sublime Christian philosopher.
None but an angel could pourtray him true,--
I feel my eyes grow moist to speak of him.
He called me friend, and that has been my pride,
And in myself I reverenced the name.
Having that store of virtues in my gaze,
Sanctified in him by Christianity,--
’Tis sacred duty to confess as much--
I felt myself grow better by so great
A pattern. Nevermore he left my thoughts,
And even in death within my heart he lives.
To him, after I reached the English shores
(All distant from him though I then had passed),
I dedicated Dante’s Comedy,
With Analytic Comment from my pen.
That Psaltery to him too I inscribed
Which praises freedom and ennobles man,
And he with kindliness received the wish
I showed that it be dedicate to him.
Of him with lively gratitude anew
I chaunted in my “Seer in Solitude.”
Those lines while I was writing, thou, blest soul,
Wast winging forth thy way to Paradise,
There to embrace the sister and the spouse
From whom thou languishing wast parted here.
O all of you elected spirits and pure,
Look down on desolate Rossetti’s grief.
He in himself holds that same constancy
Which every one of you applauded oft.
Still exiled, but now old, infirm, and blind,
How different alas from other-while!
Different? Ah no! Although oppressed by years,
He for his country always is the same.
And he, on hearing how that freedom’s tree
Has there re-budded, full of sapfulness,[47]
Blesses his every sweat of brow poured out
To irrigate its high ancestral germ;
And, now when all men sweat to nurture it
He hopes before he dies to taste its fruits.
Now Scythian cold, ’tis true, reigns everywhere,
But none can think it will last on for aye:
To the political winter now endured
A more propitious season must succeed;
And all by various signs can estimate
That flowers and fruits we yet shall see in bloom.
As Rossetti has here mentioned his edition of Dante’s _Comedy_, and his
own _Psaltery_, and as references occur later on to other publications
of his, I may as well enter at once into some details in elucidation.
After his arrival in England he printed the following works:--
1. 1826-7. Dante’s _Inferno_, with a “Comento Analitico.” The intention
was to publish the whole of the _Divina Commedia_: but, the expense
proving too great, the _Inferno_ alone came out. The great majority of
the comment on the _Purgatorio_ was written--not any (I think) of that
on the _Paradiso_. The MS. comment on the _Purgatorio_ was presented
by me in 1883 to the Municipality of Vasto, under a stipulation
(volunteered by the Municipality itself) that they would print it; but
this has not been done, and indeed the MS. volume was treated in a
highly neglectful style. My father, when in Italy, was of course very
well acquainted with Dante’s poem; but he had not studied it with any
keenness of scrutiny until he settled in London. When he did that, he
soon reached the conclusion that the surface of Dante’s _Commedia_ is
very different from its inner core of meaning. At first he considered
the inner core to be political: the Empire and Ghibellinism, as against
the Papacy and Guelfism. As he progressed his conceptions expanded, and
he regarded Dante as a member, both in politics and in religion, of an
occult society having a close relation to what we now call Freemasonry;
and he opined that the _Commedia_ and other writings of Dante, and
also the books of many other famous authors in various languages and
epochs, are of similar internal significance. It is not my purpose here
to discuss whether he was right or wrong: I hold that he was highly
ingenious, that some of his reasonings deserve very careful attention,
and that in several instances he pushed things too far. His comment
on Dante, and subsequent writings in the same direction, excited some
notice in Italy, and at least as much in England. Coleridge thought
well of his speculations up to, but not beyond, a certain point; Isaac
Disraeli was fully convinced by them; Arthur Hallam, and afterwards
Panizzi and Schlegel, wrote in opposition. A learned German, Joseph
Mendelssohn, lectured in Berlin on Rossetti’s system, and published
his discourses, which are more expository than critical, in 1843. A
remarkable book (later than my No. 2) was brought out at Naples by
Vecchioni, embodying a course of interpretation and argument closely
resembling that of Rossetti, who never quite understood whether the
conclusions of Vecchioni had been formed independently or not.
2. 1832. _Lo Spirito Antipapale che produsse la Riforma_ (The
Anti-papal Spirit which produced the Reformation) develops and extends
the ideas, which Rossetti had conceived during his study of Dante, as
to a secret society to which that poet and many other writers belonged,
and as to the essentially anti-Christian as well as anti-papal opinions
covertly expressed in their writings. An English translation of this
work was published.
3. 1833. The work to which the Autobiography has applied the name
_Psaltery_ is entitled _Iddio e l’Uomo, Salterio_ (God and Man,
a Psaltery). The majority of it was written in Malta: in London
considerable additions and changes were made. Leaving some of his
individual lyrics out of account, this may be regarded as the
completest and best poetic work produced by Rossetti. In 1843 it
was republished under a new title, _Il Tempo_ (Time), and with some
substantial modifications of plan. This book, and our No. 2, are down
in the Pontifical _Index Librorum Prohibitorum_.
4. 1840. _Il Mistero dell’ Amor Platonico del Medio Evo derivato
dai Misteri Antichi_ (The Mystery of the Platonic Love of the
Middle Ages derived from the Ancient Mysteries). This extensive and
rather discursive work, in five volumes, follows up the line of
speculation and argument shown in Nos. 1 and 2. Rossetti wrote it
with a consciousness that the themes of religion or irreligion which
it discusses were volcanic matter for readers to handle, as well as
perilous to his own professional position in England. He therefore
exhibited his subject with some amount of reticence, meandering through
thickets of very audacious thought--the thought of great writers of
the past as interpreted (but also to a great extent deprecated) by
himself. This book was printed; but, as Mr Frere, partially seconded by
Mr Charles Lyell, pronounced it to be foolhardy, it was withheld from
publication in England, and was only put on sale on the Continent with
precaution and in small numbers.
5. 1842. _La Beatrice di Dante_--an argument that Dante’s Beatrice
was not in any sense a real woman, but an embodiment of Philosophy.
The reasoning extends a good deal beyond this limit, into regions
explored in Nos. 1, 2, and 4. Rossetti completed the work in three
disquisitions--or indeed, according to the final arrangement, in nine
disquisitions. Only the first of these was published. The others
were entrusted to a French writer, M. E. Aroux. He studied them,
and published a book named _Dante Hérétique, Révolutionnaire, et
Socialiste_--a book which my father, on seeing it in print, did not
acknowledge as by any means faithful to his own views. The MS. was
returned to Rossetti: somehow it could never be found in our household
until the close of 1900, when I discovered it, more or less complete,
in an old portfolio.
6. 1846. _Il Veggente in Solitudine_ (The Seer in Solitude) is a long
poem of patriotic aim, in several books and all sorts of metres. Its
main object is to denounce the then political and religious condition
of Italy, and to forecast a better future. This is mixed up with a
good deal of autobiographical matter, and with many lyrics of old time
(some of them evincing Rossetti’s very best work) interpolated into
the context. As a rounded achievement of poetry, this book cannot be
eulogized; it had, however, a great though clandestine circulation in
Italy, roused enthusiastic feelings, and was so much prized that an
honorary medallion of Rossetti, the work of Signor Cerbara, was struck.
7. 1847. _Versi_, published at Lausanne. This volume has not a directly
patriotic or political complexion: it consists of many of Rossetti’s
best poems of early date, along with some of recent years.
8. 1852. _L’Arpa Evangelica_ (The Evangelic Harp). Although printed in
1852, this volume only reached Rossetti’s hands at an advanced date
in 1853. It consists of hymns and lyrics of a distinctly Christian,
combined with an enlarged humanitarian, character. Several of the poems
in this volume are now used in the Evangelical churches of Italy. I
find twenty-one in a volume entitled _Inni e Cantici ad uso delle
Chiese, Famiglie, Scuole, ed Associazioni Cristiane d’ Italia_. Roma,
1897.
It may be as well to say here something as to my father’s religious
opinions. His parents were religious Catholics of the ordinary Italian
type. His bringing-up was religious; and I suppose that, until
manhood was well advanced, he acquiesced, without special zeal, in
the established views and practices of Catholicism. As his political
opinions progressed into active opposition to despotism and the foreign
yoke, so did his religious opinions progress into active, and indeed
very fierce, opposition to Papal dogma and pretensions, and to all
that side of Roman Catholicism which pertains more to sacerdotal and
hierarchical system than to the personality and the gospel utterances
of Jesus Christ. On the other hand, he never ceased to cherish and
reverence this original basis of Evangelical faith and practice. As
I knew him from my earliest years (say from 1834), he adhered to no
ecclesiastical sect whatever; and--allowing for the primitive-Christian
sympathy just referred to--he was certainly far more a free-thinker
than definitely a Christian. As his writings were never of a personally
anti-Christian tone (though they often developed the anti-Christian
views of other authors), and _were_ of an anti-papal tone, he became
mixed up in his later years with Italian anti-papal Protestantizing
religionists, to an extent greater than in his prime he would have
tolerated. Towards 1849 disfrocked priests and semi-Waldensian
semi-simpletons got a good deal about him, when broken health and
precarious eyesight had to some extent enfeebled his mental along
with his bodily powers; and association with these people and their
publications did certainly not tend to promote a vigorous presentment
of his essentially undogmatic but not essentially unspiritual mind. He
came to write about Christian matters in terms suited to an absolute
Christian believer; whereas, in fact, he was a devotional adherent to
the moral and spiritual utterances of Jesus, but was not a practising
member of any Christian denomination, nor a disciple in any theological
school. It should be understood that, though a fervent and outspoken
anti-papalist, he never expressly renounced the Roman Catholic faith.
In the earlier years of his London sojourn it might have been to his
advantage (as Professor of Italian in King’s College and elsewhere)
to join the Anglican rather than the Roman communion; but this he
considered unworthy of an Italian, and he never took any step in that
direction. Neither did he naturalize himself as an Englishman.
The means of Gabriele Rossetti were never equal to paying the cost
of expensive publications. My No. 1 was brought out by subscription;
Nos. 2 and 4 by the spontaneous liberality of Mr Lyell, and, as far
as No. 4 is concerned, Mr Frere came forward, as well, at the close.
It is only fair to say that Rossetti was a laborious worker, of
independent spirit; and, though he accepted with grateful satisfaction
the volunteered bounty of Mr Lyell in these instances, and of Mr Frere
in some others likewise, he was the least likely of men to go about to
“ask, and ye shall receive.”
As I have been speaking--with the distaste which I learned to feel
for them as a class--of Protestantizing Italians, I will add that
one excellent man I have known among them was my cousin Teodorico
Pietrocola-Rossetti. He was in London in the later years of my father’s
life, but was not then taking an active part in the Evangelical
propaganda to which he devoted all the closing part of his career.
In 1883 he died in Florence, while conducting a service for his
congregation. A great number of his hymns are in the collection _Inni e
Cantici_ before mentioned.
Back to my tale. And I should here premise
That, turning lengthened studies to account,
I undertook in Malta first to spread
A taste for our Italian literature;
And in distinguished houses not a few
To witness others’ progress was my joy.
A Massic or Falernian wine no more
I drank, as oft in Naples I had done,
But quaffed the spirit of the classics now
Alone, and none could say “Why gorge thyself?”
But, even in study laudable howe’er,
Intemperance is still condemnable.
Many, I know, find teaching wearisome,
Whereas to me ’twas profit and repute;
And I could all repeat from memory
The Comedy of Dante, mystical,
Tasso, Ariosto, drama, satirists,
Petrarch, Chiabrera, and some lyrists more.
Become the foremost of professors there,
I knew the most distinguished travellers
And highest officers of government:
Indeed, from titled man to boatman, all
Bore me affection--saving only one.
The Consul there from Naples was Gerardi,
Who constantly molested refugees.
One day that upon me he fixed his glance,
I cried: “You hangman’s face, what see you in me?”
Confused he drooped his far from pleasant eyes,
And put the tail of him between his legs.
This serf of tyrant power endeavoured then
To get me turned adrift out of the isle,
When Albion’s Sejanus, Castlereagh,
Was ordering to expel the fugitives:
But this Gerardi (he might cry with rage)
Had read my face “Noli me tangere.”
As long as there I lived, I felt assured
That all the world contained no baser man;
But, when I saw in London a Minasi,[48]
I found that I had made a great mistake.
But such a name, by God, pollutes my lips.
No, let my mouth be nevermore befouled
To speak a most opprobrious brigand’s name!
Go, galleys’ rot, or rather gallows’ rot,
Go, Ruffo’s bravo[49] and worse knave than he!
Through that Gerardi, under-strapper of Kings,
I saw from Malta hounded Rossaroll,[50]
And Carrascosa[51] and Abatemarchi,[52]
Capecelatro,[53] Florio, and many more;
And a Poerio,[54] in his rage convulsed,
Was first imprisoned, afterwards expelled.
And Pier de Luca (I record with tears
Thy fate, the flower of courteous learned men)
And Pier de Luca lost his reason hence,
And was in frenzy for some days and nights:
He trembled at Gerardi’s very name,
And later on, to escape, he drowned himself.
O Castlereagh! Thy country rightly deems
That thy best service was thy suicide;
But why no suicide a year before?
Indignant I returned to England’s masts,
For Malta grew to me insufferable.
A nest of corsairs Malta now meseemed,
Where, save that single man, all things I abhorred;
So to the seat imperial of the main
Thetis and Neptune re-conveyed my steps.
Nor shall I paint that lengthy voyaging,
Which in another poem[55] I described.
The curst Gerardi, in insulting terms,
Had written to the Bourbon Council-board
How that Rossetti, that incendiary,
Was to be found upon the British ship;
And cried the King: “Upon a sovereign’s faith,
I’ll do my utmost to get hold of him.”
Well had that General Fardella said,
Who gave me secret pledge of friendliness,
That a malignant star detained me there,
Since o’er me impended a tremendous ire.
And I had stayed, at hazard of my life,
For full three months exposed to all the risk!
Following routine, the British Admiral
Was bidding farewell to the Sovereign;
And he perceived astonished that for rage
The King, like a hyæna, bit his lips.
Treating him almost as a menial, he
Said with an angry and imperious tone:
“Surrender that rebellious subject whom
You saved, and now to England would conduct.”
And he with firmset aspect made reply:
“An English Admiral will not be base.”
Menaces and entreaties he contemned,
And turned his back on him resolvedly;
And, when that evening he returned aboard,
He told what was demanded and refused.
And such a fact cannot be called in doubt,
For all o’er Naples did its rumour run.
I felt myself so moved by that account
That, in the presence of his noble wife,
I with emotion kissed his saving hand.
Thee may God guerdon, mounted soul in heaven!
Twice over did I owe my life to thee,--
And gracious lady, God bless thee alike!
And I reflected: “Why in Ferdinand
Boils up against me such a fierce despite
That, not appeased by lifelong banishment,
He would inflict on me a barbarous death?
So much of rage against my civic song,
In which as father I so lauded him!
And how has he forgotten those my lines
Which drew the very tear-drops from his eyes?”
The savage spirit! When he heard me named,
His knees would jog beneath his body’s weight,
And he against me, the poor exiled bard,
Was all a-tremble, furiously convulsed.
And thence a truthful penman wrote to me
He had himself from the fierce Bourbon heard--
“If even the court declares him innocent,
I’ll make him die under the bastinade:
On public scaffold or in darkest crypt
Die he infallibly shall--and that I swear.”[56]
Thus for a long while I remained in doubt
Of the true motive for such senseless rage:
But then the pen of a most worthy man
Gave me a light amid the obscurity.
What time the King of Naples had decamped,
And I had turned my course to another goal,
Some praise of me was heard by Gaspare Mollo
Duke of Lusciano, who was reckoned then
An able poet; and my fate so willed
That he desired to meet me face to face.
Of voluntary good-will he gave me proofs,
Which I responded to with modesty:
But, when he heard me improvise in verse,
Mollo became as jealous as a beast:
He in my presence spoke in jest alone,
But poured his insults forth behind my back.
He piqued himself the most on improvise:
He saw his primacy endangered much,
And tried his best to make me ludicrous.
And I upon his dramas and his rhymes
(For who can damp a youthful poet’s fire?)
Launched a good ten or dozen epigrams,[57]
Which many men rehearsed with loud guffaws.
For one he gave me, I returned him ten:
This was ill done, I know--but so I did.
Mollo kept brooding o’er his inward grudge,
Which well I read upon his pallid cheek.
Now, when the liberal Government had fall’n,
He was installed as President of a Board
To overhaul the writings then produced.
The President, and Censors in his wake,
From that explosion of anonymous print
Chose hundreds of inflammatory attacks,
And called them all my own--no fable this--
And showed me like a devil to the King.
And how that monumental lie disprove?
If even I had been Briareus,
Writing by night and day with hundred pens,
It would have been a thing impossible
To achieve that quantity of verse and prose.
A shameless slander! Yet my enemy
Mouths it against me, and the King believes.
This statement about the Duke of Lusciano may be quite true--a point
as to which I am not competent to express an opinion. I have always
understood, however, that one main professed grievance of the King
against Rossetti was as follows (and in candour I state it here, as
I did in my Memoir of Dante Rossetti):--At the time when an Austrian
invasion of the Neapolitan territory, connived at by King Ferdinand,
was imminent, Rossetti wrote a lyric expressive of the patriotic rage
natural at the time, containing this quatrain addressed to the King--
“I vindici coltelli
Sapran passarvi il cor:
I Sandi ed i Luvelli
Non son finiti ancor.”
(Avenging knives will be apt to pierce[58] your heart: the Sands and
the Louvels are not yet done with). These lines clearly say that King
Ferdinand, if he were to persist in a certain course, would be very
liable to be assassinated; and, although they do not add that he
_ought_ to be assassinated, the Rè Nasone cannot have been solitary
in scenting out that implication. There was also the affair (referred
to on p. 50 as more than probable) that Rossetti had accompanied the
Neapolitan troops, animating them by his verses to fight against the
Austrians in defence of a constitution which the King, by a gross act
of perjury, had then abolished.
We in the harbour of Naples made a stay
Two weeks almost--it gave me many a thrill.
The very aspect of the city enslaved
Became for me a melancholy scene.
The vigilant Police, who day and night
Laid scores of snares if they might catch me so,
Set full a hundred spies around the ship
To learn who might be come to visit me--
But no one came; and yet by means unknown
Earnest of friendship did not fail to reach.
But now the breeze is favouring, waves a-calm,
And the much longed-for moment is at hand.
How many mothers o’er their slaughtered sons
Wept on the shore because of that wild beast
Who for a five years’ term had sheathed his claws,
And now unsheathed them in the lust of rage!
Joyful I turned my back on servitude,
And full of ardour sped toward Liberty.
Hail and thrice hail, O puissant Albion,
Who, ceaseless in diffusing trades and arts,
Thine irresistible trident dost extend
Over the immense four quarters of the world.
If thou, devout to rightful liberty,
Impart’st to others its inspiring rays,
Thou, arbiter of warfare and of peace,
Wilt become mightier than antique Rome.
Will it, and thou redeem’st a world oppressed,
For thy determined will ensures result.
America, thy rival and thy child,
If thou dost fail, will do it later on:
She in her nascent empire will become
The foremost nation of the rounded world.
She’ll be thy rival, truly glorious,
For still in her gigantic state she grows;
But not vociferous conceited France,
Free and enslaved at once, as if by Fate.
In you two all is diverse--customs, tongues;
Her mark is impetus, and reason thine.
Since my arrival, England, much thou hast done,
Yet much remains to do--do it thou wilt.
Hardly had I set foot upon the land
But I around me felt a freer air:
’Mid grand activity which knows no pause
I found my own increasing day by day;
And by the influences which wove my web
After the poet’s came the scholar’s turn.
Accounting precious every instant’s time
In high conceptions I was all immersed:
Dante, with Analytic Commentary,
Was the first outcome of my new pursuits:
And, spite of all disparagement, the work
Earns me the sympathy of distinguished men.
Charles Lyell, having read it, to me wrote,
Giving clear pledge of unsolicited
Regard--a Scotchman he, of lofty mind,
And Allighieri’s signal devotee:
He on my heart, which honours his deserts,
Is still impressed, after the unequalled Frere.
And now him also doth the urn enclose,[59]
And bitter tears he leaves me to outpour.
I say it again; no longer in the heat
Of Massic or Falernian, nor indeed
Of politics, I set to tracing out
Our classic writers’ anti-papal spirit,
With critical mind--confuting carping tongues;
To Lyell did I dedicate the book.
Stately an University had risen
In this enormous capital of the realm:[60]
And now the Council, from whose midst emerged
Such ample learning sacred and profane,
Offered me of its own accord the chair
Allotted to Italian literature.
To Italy, to flout three Kings, I sped
My fame, and triumphed over lies with truth.
Let Tyranny hate me, while my country loves,--
Her exiled son has never wrought her shame;
And this I know--despite all senseless rage,
My books have made their way from hand to hand.
And not those hymns alone where I forecast
The Ausonian Genius’ future rapt in thought;[61]
But that Arcanum of Platonic Love
Which offers in five tomes broad scrutinies,
Where pondering I analyse the myths
Of every country, every faith and age;
And that in which I showed symbolic all
Our Allighieri’s mystic Beatrice,
Delineated by the schemes occult
Of most remote gymnosophistic times,
Which schools of magians had inherited,
And through the Mysteries bequeathed to us;
Also that other noted by its name,
Rome toward the Middle of our Century.
In each my work, to freedom dedicate,
I demonstrate the iniquities of priests:
In all that I expounded nought I feigned,
But drew my facts from pages thousandfold.
Immoderate study always is unwise,
But, if ’tis noxious, it amounts to guilt.
No, that which I have published, much though it be,
Is but the half of what I’ve written down.
Ah for my blindness whom have I to blame,
When by myself my eyes were done to death?
Having in England stayed my roaming course,
And seeing my future less ambiguously,
Like Dante’s, “Vita Nuova!”[62] was my word:
He wrote but I resolved to practise it.
“Let warm affections in my novel lot
Arise,” I said, “to populate my breast.
[Illustration: GAETANO POLIDORI
_From a Pencil-Drawing by Dante Gabriel Rossetti_
1853]
Within the hotbed of our vicious times
Love proffered me its frenzies and remorse:
But, never a seducer, still seduced,
Quicksand to quicksand, angry seas I ploughed:
Now let a holier love possess my soul,--
May he who churned it up restore its calm.”
And prudent reason here will not disclose
What and how many tempests I endured.
Upon my canvas be concealed, concealed,
The flush upon my brow in others’ shame.[63]
And on those quicksands while I fix my gaze
A dreadful shudder creeps along my veins,
And in that shudder I my visage smite,
Uttering a curse against my weaknesses.
The quicksands are afar, the harbour’s here.
Settled in London, all my travels past,
Among the men I most was pleased to meet,
Gaetano Polidori, learned, wise,
Who had been Count Alfieri’s secretary,
’Mid all the Italians whom I had known as yet
Appeared to merit honour and esteem.
Teaching was his profession. He had done
No small translating-work, had much composed.
Tuscan by birth, by accent all the more,
An elegant writer both in prose and verse,
He showed me, joined with candid character,
The strictest morals and a cultured mind.
Upon the day when I returned his call,
And saw him ’mid his well-bred family,
I twice and thrice fixed my admiring eyes
Upon the second daughter’s comeliness.
A single moment regulates a life:
My heart became the lodestone, she the pole.
And every hour my love became more keen
When hundred virtues and no self-conceit ...
I know that what I’m writing she dislikes,[64]
But, hiding it from her, I speak it still:
Knowing her fully, I have often said--
Angel in soul, and angel in her looks.
Feeling within me glow the lighted flame,
I wrote to Polidori, and ’twas thus:
“If to the gracious name of friend you please
To add the loving name of son as well
(Pray Heaven that so it may be!) be not loth
To give the enclosed into your Frances’ hands.
If this displease you, little though it were,
If so it haps you disapprove my suit,
Throw the two letters both into the fire,
And speak of this no more; but pray concede
Our friendship be not sundered, yours and mine,--
You so would punish my straightforwardness.”
A day being past, the maid to me so dear
Gave me a most affectionate response;
And at the altar after four months more
We vowed between us two a mutual faith.[65]
In marriage-knot at summit of my hopes,
My days went by in cheerful industry.
As sweet reward of honourable zeal,
My credit made advance from day to day.
Four only children Heaven conceded me,
And all the four I see around me still,
The issue of affections tender and true
In the four opening matrimonial years.
To speak about my wife I shall not pause,--
Others would think it overcharged, inept:
This I may tell--she is a blooming graft
Of English mother and of Tuscan sire;
Through mother and through sire in her one sees
Two nations tempering the mind and heart.
Let me but say that in her is evinced
Frankness of manner unpremeditate;
That she both speaks and writes three high-prized tongues,
Which rank ’mong Europe’s choicest and most rich;
And, when their authors she was studying,
She culled the flower of the three literatures.
That firm-fixed character which she displays
Founded, by means of Jesus’ gospel-book,
Upon religion pure morality,
Upon morality the purest life;
Thus she presents, perfect on every side,
The steadfast woman of the sacred page.
From living pattern oh what strength the love
Of ethical instructions must receive!
Wherefore to her more than myself is due
Our children’s educating discipline;
For of each rule she utters with her lips
They see in her the breathing prototype.
I never had occasion for a school,
Too apt to vitiate a guileless heart;
For she in her two daughters had betimes
Transfused a taste for music;[66] in all four
(Presenting now this model and now that)
The taste for letters and the beautiful.
In theory and in practice, both alike,
Her life is a fine treatise on the good:
Always a Christian, not a fanatic,
Always devout, but not ecstatical:
Heavens, what a woman! her Anglo-Italian soul
Has never trespassed over duty’s bound.
’Tis now five lustres I have made her mine,
And in five lustres I still see her the more
An angel harmony of deeds and words,
And in five lustres her all-blameless life
Has not one moment, one, belied itself.
I thank my God that, when he addressed my heart
To new affections, he made these be high:
And you, beloved children, thank you me
That such a mother I chose to give you breath.
[Illustration: CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
_From a Pencil-Drawing by Dante Gabriel Rossetti_
C. 1846]
Others perhaps will say that every bird
(An ancient saw) approves his proper nest.
Maria, Christina, William, Gabriel,
My children, _you_’ll reply, and that’s enough.
My loving girls, in whom my soul descries
A heavenly mind in virgin modesty,
Of intellect and ethics you have given
Already a shining proof in prose and verse:[67]
You from a double looking-glass, it seems,
Reflect upon us all your mother’s soul.
As from a twin-branched fountain-source there spurt
Rills of fresh lymph to inundate a mead--
So sometimes sister-like do poetry
And painting beautify the selfsame mind:
And both unite in you, my Gabriel,
And fertilize your soul, and give it fire.
These like two fountains both in you upflow,
Both in you like two torches are alight;
And, while you make them brightly manifest,
They both prepare in you exalted work.
Run and attain the duplicated goal,
Though yours is the most early dawn of life:
As able poet I hear you already hailed,
Already as able painter see you admired.[68]
Now onward, and the double race-course win!
You will be doing what I could not do.
If ’tis not vanity, almost re-born
I feel in person, even in countenance,
My calm-attempered William, in yourself,[69]
Thought in your eyes, and on your lips a smile.
In two dead languages and four that live
Already Truth converses with your mind.
My children, grow, grow up to patriot love;
In you the blood and name of me is stored
To England from Abruzzo transmigrate.
Free you were born, and I was born a serf.
O Providence! Mine exile seemed to me
The dire injustice of a Fate my foe;
But, if mine exile’s fruitage was to prove
A family like this, I bless the ban.
Yes, for thy deadly rage which hurled me forth,
Perfidious Bourbon King, I give thee thanks.
The thirteenth lustre have I now o’erstept
Of veteran life used to the field of fight;
And, never deviating from myself,
I glory in a changeless character.
A splendid servitude enchants me not:
Dying I’ll cry “All life to Italy!”
From the first day when her I knew oppressed,
I envied any who could give her aid.
Not for _my_ sake I loved her, but for hers,
When I devoted to her rest and life.
But there are some who, posed as Liberals,
Defame with such a title country and self:
And things I have to tell so silly or mean
That but to think of them my stomach turns.
But, ere I yield me to indignant zeal,
I sever the few good from numerous bad.
You who, despite the despots and the priests,
As firm Italians have revealed yourselves,
Ricciardi and Cagnazzi and Saliceti,
Gazzola, Mamiani, and Muzzarel,[70]
You let Fame publish in all time and place,
You and some others--yet ye are but few.
And where, immortal Pepe, leave I thee,
Who wreath’st young laurel upon hoary hair?
Sole Garibaldi is compeer of thine--
The sword of Venice thou, and he of Rome:
Tarpeian Eagle and Lion of Adria
Maintained by you two a determined strife.
By virtue of you Venice and Rome exclaim:
“All have we lost, ’tis true, but honour not;
For ne’er, undaunted heroes, did you yield
Save to the greater number and adverse fate.
Ye both, our century’s honour, have pursued
The good of Italy and not your own.”
That my father was most right in saying, “And where, immortal Pepe,
leave I thee?” will be generally allowed by persons cognizant of the
facts. I sincerely regret that he did not add, “And where, immortal of
immortals, Mazzini, leave I _thee_?” As he did not add that, I must say
a few words to account for so grave an omission.
Mazzini did not settle in London until 1837. It was inevitable that
two such patriots and exiles as Mazzini and Rossetti should know one
another. There was a great amount of mutual respect between them
(of which my Appendix furnishes ample proof), but not anything like
constant personal intercourse--in fact, I do not recollect having
even once seen Mazzini in our house, but I have occasionally seen him
elsewhere. To Italy and freedom they were equally devoted, and the
great conception of Italian unity was present to the minds of both. But
Mazzini was a determined Republican, which Rossetti was not--being,
from the course of his experiences and reflections, more in favour of a
constitutional monarchy, though by no means unsympathetic with the idea
of a Republic at the rare conjunctures when it emerged as having some
practical application: he was never a member of the Giovine Italia.
Mazzini was also, by nature and circumstance, an incessant conspirator,
and promoted a number of unpromising and abortive insurrections,
foredoomed to failure, and viewed with regret, and at times even
with great repugnance, by such Italians as were not committed to the
extremest forms of political theory and practice. It is no business of
mine to express an opinion whether Mazzini or Rossetti was the more
nearly in the right; but it has always been my conviction that, had it
not been for the agitation so strenuously kept alive by the sublime
Genoese patriot, the emancipation and unifying of Italy would not have
taken place so soon as they did.
It happened that towards 1850, when my father was writing his
Autobiography, he was particularly alienated from the policy pursued
by Mazzini and his adherents. The great revolutionary year, 1848, had
witnessed uprisings in various parts of Italy (an insurrection in
Messina had preceded the French Revolution of February 1848 against
Louis Philippe), followed by a regular campaign between the Piedmontese
and the Austrians; this was renewed in 1849. In both instances the
Austrians were the victors; and many patriotic Italians, including
Rossetti, opined that this disastrous result had in large measure been
brought about by a Mazzinian agitation (I will not pretend to say how
far Mazzini himself was personally responsible for it) which repelled
aid that might possibly have been forthcoming from some foreign powers,
especially republican France, and denounced the Piedmontese sovereign,
Charles Albert, as covertly a traitor to the Italian cause for which he
was fighting. I can thus understand a certain feeling on my father’s
part which, when he undertook to “sever the few good from numerous
bad,” among Italians “posed as Liberals,” withheld him from expressly
naming the great protagonist of the national movement, Mazzini,
although he indisputably, in his own mind, included him in the roll of
“the few good.” Even so the omission is to be regretted.
As to the question of Rossetti’s estimate of Republicanism (to which,
as I have already said, he preferred, for practical purposes, a
constitutional monarchy), the following distinct profession of faith
seems worth preserving. Its date cannot be earlier than June 1850, and
is probably a little later. It was written to introduce a poem--not, I
think, any that has been published.
“After having seen what is almost always the issue of a democratic
republic, more than once attempted in Europe; having seen that,
barbarous, sanguinary, fratricidal, predaceous, and atheistic, in
France in the last century, it ended in the absolute despotism of
Bonaparte; and that, although mild, gentle, generous, and believing,
in our own century, it is about to merge into the augmenting despotism
of another Bonaparte, who does not even possess the fascination of the
military and political successes and the talents of the first; how
can ever this blessed Republic still abide in the hearts of so many
Italians who sincerely love their country? And yet it does abide....
And was it not this desire which produced among us the discord of minds
in 1848, and caused all our subsequent reverses? Oh if all the Italians
had then unanimously combined with Charles Albert to expel the common
enemy from our sacred soil--oh if many inconsiderate men had not, with
the cry of ’Republic’ which they proclaimed with so much fervour,
first dismayed that sovereign, and afterwards damped his enthusiasm
for Italian independence--at this hour not one German foot would be
insolently stamping our land, and Italy would not be such as she has
miserably returned to being. Pius IX. himself took fright at that name;
and, retreating from the glorious path which he was already footing, he
ended by betraying us. A melancholy story this--which has made, makes,
and will make, all who love Italy shed prolonged tears.
“‘But then you have no liking for a Republic?’ To any who ask me this,
I shall answer: Yes, I like it, and that far better than others do;
but I like one which would not have severed from us either Charles
Albert or Pius IX., and which would have conduced to our obtaining that
national independence that was the ardent longing of all Italians.... I
like that Republic which alone can suit the interest of all, and which
alone seems capable of enduring in Italy, or indeed in modern Europe.
“Whilst our hapless country had a prospect of good success, I wrote
these few extemporized octaves, which might furnish occasion for many
notes, so as to establish more fully what such a _Republic without
peril_ ought to be--which I have always desired, and now more than ever
desire.... I felt my heart touched in re-reading these stanzas; and,
rude and unpolished as they are, I yet transcribe them, so that they
may bear evidence that my soul did not participate in that political
offence which was the cause of our disasters.”
After this rather long digression, I return to the Autobiography, and
its contrast between “the few good” and the “numerous bad” Italians.
But ah how few there are that acted thus!
With us a most repulsive crew combined,
Seeking to fish in troubled water-streams.
’Mong scanty good men many bad escaped,
A show of baseness and of wretchedness:
These brought dishonour on the refugees
In French and Portuguese and Spanish soil;
But here in England unexpectedly
There came to settle down the best and worst.
I grieved for famished men and mendicants
Who had recourse to swindling and intrigue:
But Paolelli who became a spy,
And wrought out General Turrigo’s death,[71]
And other such, Italy’s sorrow and shame,
Made me repent--but this I will not say.
Bozzelli was a Liberal of this kind,
And acted it with comic gravity;
And, viler than Borrelli, vilest man,
Betrayed anon his country for a “place.”[72]
The royal beasts having re-sought their dens,
Scoundrels in crowds go to consort with them;
Rome, Naples, Lombardy, and Tuscany,--
I turn my indignant eye from such a horde.
And then reposefully my glance can pause
Upon the upright whom Heaven has with me leagued,
And who, inflamed with patriot charity,
Reverberate on me their proper light.
In a great cause we fell, and from that day
We share the sacredness of Fortune’s blows.
On reaching London, from the very first
I knew some trustworthy, some faithless souls:
These base Minasi set upon my track,
And I--fool that I was--discerned it not.
But all the emigrating company
Treated me brother-like--save only one.[73]
Still, if in me he blames and snaps on all,
For all that’s mine he deems detestable,
He prized my steadfast politics alone,
And, joined with this, my blameless moral course:
As for the rest, he wants all men to sniff
In me the agreeable smell which donkeys yield.
But wherefore in him did such rage collect?
I know not, I: I saw him only once,
When some one showed him to me in the street.
Italy, subject of mine every thought,
Thine exiled son found kindness everywhere
In hundreds of high-hearted foreigners:
Only one exiled brother’s fatal hate ...
Yet this disgrace is common, and I pause.
Behold I waken from the dream of life,
And all the past meseems a flitting shade.
Before I quit the earth, or--better so--
Before I there return and sleep in peace,
I think it time to make my testament,
For now I feel me on the bed of death.
It shall be brief indeed. What can I say?
I will repeat with other sufferers--
I leave my corpse to earth, my soul to God,
Of whom I ask forgiveness of my sins.
I trust in Christ, and cheer me with the thought
That his true dogma I have tried to avow.
I pardon all, yes all, my enemies.
More than one work of mine lies on my hands;
Something I think it well to say of them.
I have indited a great roll of rhymes,
Eight volumes[74]--to my country they’re bequeathed.
Four I have published;[75] four I leave behind,
Which are extemporaneous almost all,--
For, having reached the arduous goal of life,
A popular poet’s title I desire.
The book I called _Arpa Evangelica_,
Which aims the man-God’s worship to promote,
Will prove--and would it were already in print!--
Grateful to pious souls, I doubt not this.
With what rapidity I wrote the book!
It seemed as if I knew the whole by heart.
Those hymns are not of all one calibre
But all of them evince a feeling soul.
I did it in three months--the vein ran quick.
In volumes twain, where I make practical
Rights linked to duties, which I specify,
To which I have appropriately given
The title Politic-Dogmatic Lyre,
Eschewing style fantastic or bizarre
’Gainst all despotic power I hurl my words.
Then in the fourth, mid plaudits, pomps, and rites,
I sang that man[76] whom many wrote about,
Who first deceived us all, and then betrayed.
_Pœnitet me fecisse_ is my finale:
I hate as once I loved thee--Man of Fraud!
The work however where with critic thoughts
My mind has spatiated and rested most,
And where I have sought out the essential truth
Of Dante’s Beatrice, as yet concealed,
Is that in which I clasp a mighty orb
As ’twere, and thereon most I plume myself.
In this the mystic diction I expound
Of which I recollect I spoke before.
A sample of it I printed ten years back
In one Discourse alone, but now they are nine.
“This, more than poems,” I sometimes exclaim,
“May prove my passport to a future age.”
I, if my life is now a bitter one,
Can still, amid my very sorrows, say:
“I live a freeman,--at my country’s shrine
Freedom for me becomes a form of faith:
And as I lived I’ll die--a sacred vow.”
And, while I look on all my bygone life,
The year of this our century forty-three
With black stone noted figures on the roll:
I fancied I should die, but sore mishap
Left me my life but took my sight away.[77]
Worn down and down by bronchial sufferings,
From January until September increased,
I yet, exhaling in my verse my woes,
Nurtured my mind with patriotic thoughts:
And daybreaks of the Seer in Solitude
Shed on my visioned spirit glowing beams:
No, those were not fantastical ideas,
For to men’s eyes they are daily verified.[78]
But ah my life now dwindles more and more,
And hurries toward its occidental dusk;
Yet I enjoyed aforetime strenuous health,
Which for grave constant study made me apt:
And, now that old and blind I cling to that,
I feel that habit serves me more than drugs.
How could I curb myself? For I confess
My heart vibrates to thousand impulses;
Existence is almost the same as thought,--
To live and nought to do I cannot brook.
A course of living honourable and hard
A poet I began, a poet end.
But, if I am condemned to days so black,
At least let Tyranny not therefor joy.
I, in this night to which no dawn ensues,
Record a vow to raise my chaunt ’gainst her
So long as life endures, and yet beyond--
For even when I am silent in the earth
To war on her in verse will I persist.
Great God, to whom I hymning wafted prayers
Of Italy--diseased, betrayed, unvenged--
Thou didst preserve me, I know, that I might wage
War on the wretch who in man insults Thyself.
Who knows, who knows but for my latest days
Thou mayest have held reserved a greater strength?
Perchance Thou hast reft mine eyes that I might turn
Back to that poesy which I had left;
Thought prompts me that for this supreme intent
Thou a blind instrument will’st me of Thine hand.
How haps it that the old man’s heart glows young,
And in him life and daring are re-greened?
How haps it that his soul’s a looking-glass,
So to reflect the future’s burst of flame?
A light of prophecy salutes his eyes,
A voice of prophecy salutes his lips.
Magnify, magnify the name of Him
Who knots the mighty bindings of events--
Him by whose hand I, an obscure young man,
Was drawn into the strife of politics.
I nought, He all. I comprehend His power,
And for my very ills I yield Him thanks.
All the less possible the victory seems
So much the greater is the glory of God![79]
To Thee, great God, I owe devoutest praise,
In that, before I sleep the eternal sleep,
In the Subalpine noble Realm I see
Already a liberal form of better rule.
If all has gone to wreckage in the storm,
At least this single plank remains to us.
And nigh to death I still can joy and chaunt,
And can foresee more favourable days.
From the two sees which they so much befouled
Refractory priests a pair have been dismissed;[80]
And without mitre on their tonsured scalps
One takes his way to France, and one to Rome.
Those desecrated altars wait you there
Whence Christ indignant has withdrawn his foot:
There full a thousand demons are your peers,--
Sole Bonaparte and Pius distance you.
Fair Kingdom which, to avenge that double scorn,
Art now expelling the two mitred fiends,
Wherefore dost thou retain a hateful cult
Which Petrarch called a “school of fallacies”?
Oh let the Man of Sin and Realm of Sin,
Pitiful God, come to their end at last!
Farewell, farewell for ever, land beloved,
To whom I joyed to vow my whole of life;
And, while thy foe remains upon the throne,
I evermore against him will to fight.
Yes, I will fight till underground I sink....
And yet I feel alas all vigour wanes:
What is the use of will bereft of strength?
Moaning I quit mine arms: and to the last
Of hours my daytime goes precipitant.
O land of Liberty, accept my thanks;
O hour of my repose, I greet thee well.
When he has footed a disastrous road,
And night without a star engirds him round,
The wearied traveller searches for repose,
Waiting until the dayspring rise anew:
Yes, sleep in quiet, you are tired indeed,
But nevermore the sun for you will rise.
If you have done your duty, happy you,
And for your dust your country prays for peace.
If, sleeping in the earth, you wake in heaven,
Amid the daylight without even and dawn,
Each of your sufferings here becomes a claim,
And in your garland like a jewel shines.
There you will hold, amid the angelic throng,
Fixed on the Eternal Sun insatiate eyes.
Where summer burns not nor doth winter chill,
I shall again embrace thee, O my wife,
Within that everlasting nuptial-bond
Which never hand of Death can sunder more.
There I await thee, thou art sure to come:
Who worthier than thou of that abode?
I know what sun will in thy pilgrimage
Serve as the guide to thine unswerving feet.
Be, in the zenith of thy life and path,
Be thou the escort of our children loved;
This duty when thou wholly hast fulfilled,
Well know’st thou who expects thee above the spheres.
When these my wearied eyelids shall be closed,
Her steps, beloved children, follow ye:
Of her be worthy--and of me perchance--
And unto us you four will all return.
Oh glad the day when seated ’mid you all,
I shall see Paradise for me complete!
Ah let not one of you be wanting there!
And, when you shall ascend to our embrace,
Speak to me of Italy, speak one by one,
For then her state will not endure the same.
Oh if in heaven one day the fame should spread
That she anew resurges free and grand!
Hosannah and hosannah ’mid the harps
Of gold a thousand toward the Eternal Breath
I shall intone: Hosannah in infinite
Chorus, Hosannah, shall the Saints resound:
And in the new augmented jubilee
Far lovelier to me Paradise will show.
Oh let the prison unclose where I am shut!
My penal period has fulfilled its term.
And here the versified Autobiography also fulfils its term.
The desire for death, expressed in verse, was genuinely present to
Gabriele Rossetti’s mind. Ever since the break-up of his health--which
came to a severe crisis in 1843, followed by partial blindness, and
that by many and increasing infirmities, paralytic and other--he
found life more burdensome than otherwise, and would willingly have
resigned it but for his earnest wish to work for the benefit of his
family. Even the power of remunerative work failed towards 1847, when
he had to resign his professorship at King’s College. Troublous public
events ensued; the tergiversation of Pope Pius IX., the defeat of the
Piedmontese and other Italians by the Austrian armies, the crushing of
the Roman Republic by a French expedition. These and other political
occurrences greatly darkened the closing years of Rossetti; and yet he
was unconquerably hopeful as to a more or less near future, and the
result justified his hopes.
I will summarize very briefly the events of his life subsequent to the
date of the Autobiography, say 1850.
Rossetti being now, by failure of health and eyesight, debarred from
professional work--though he always continued diligent in no common
degree as a writer, principally in verse--the support of the family
devolved in large part on our mother, who went out teaching, and at one
time conducted a small day-school in London. The four children were, at
the end of 1850, in this position:--Maria, aged twenty-three, a teacher
of Italian, French, etc.; Dante Gabriel, aged twenty-two, a painter
struggling to sell his pictures and make a position; Christina, aged
just twenty, assisting our mother when the day-school was going on,
otherwise without regular employment; myself, aged twenty-one, a clerk
in the Inland Revenue Office and art-critic of _The Spectator_--my
earnings of course scanty, but on the whole the least precarious among
the slender resources of the family. As the day-school in London
brought in no income worth speaking of, Mrs Rossetti, seeing some
prospect of an opening at Frome-Selwood, Somerset, started another
day-school there in the spring of 1853; her husband and Christina
accompanied her. This school proved no more successful than its
predecessor; and, as by the end of 1853 I was beginning to advance
a little in my office, I got the family to re-unite in London from
Lady-day 1854, and had the satisfaction of housing my suffering father
in his last days. The house was named 45 Upper Albany Street, Regent’s
Park--later on, 166 Albany Street. The end came very soon, 26th April
1854.
I subjoin here two obituary notices. The first was written by Conte
Giuseppe Ricciardi, on 1st May 1854, and published in the _Opinione_
of Turin. The second was written by myself, and published in _The
Spectator_, 6th May. In the latter there are a few details (of dates
etc.) which I now know to be not absolutely correct, but I leave
them as they stand. I could cite a great number of other eulogistic
tributes, more especially since 1882, but need not launch out upon
these.
(_a_) “Italian emigrants, and with the emigrants all Italy, are
constrained to mourn another loss. The earliest, the most venerable,
of the exiles, the illustrious Gabriele Rossetti, died in London
on the evening of 26th April, after a banishment of thirty-three
years--all of them spent in upholding the sacred Italian cause....
“Rossetti, an extemporaneous poet already known and valued by the
public at the date, 1820, when in Naples the revolution broke out
which came to such a wretched end in the following year, composed,
among other lyrics, the splendid hymn, ’Sei pur bella cogli astri sul
crine,’ to which I find nothing to be compared except the other lyric
brought out by himself in London in 1831, beginning ‘Sù brandisci la
lancia di guerra’; and this too records another hapless revolution!...
“It is needless to say that not a few writings of the highly
distinguished author remain unpublished; pre-eminent among which are
Parts II. and III. of his Comment on the _Divine Comedy_. For this
(shall I say it?) I have in vain, up to the present date, sought out a
publisher--so miserable are the conditions of Italian literature.
“Rossetti, besides being, as all know, an eminent poet and renowned
scholar, was a fervent patriot, always most constant to his
principles, and a man of unsullied virtue, so that he was revered
even by his political enemies, and no one ever ventured to assail his
reputation in the least degree; while all who came to have a little
knowledge of him soon got to love him.”
(_b_) “Gabriele Rossetti, the most daringly original of the
commentators on Dante, died on the 26th ultimo, in London, in his
seventy-second year.
“Born on the 28th February 1783, in Vasto, a sea-coast town in the
Kingdom of Naples, he first visited the capital in the capacity of
secretary to the Marquis of Vasto, but for the purpose of following,
under the auspices of that nobleman, the profession of a painter. His
tastes soon took a more decided bent, however, towards literature. He
developed a particular talent as a poetical improvisatore; and his
poems, both recited and written, gained him considerable reputation.
For some while he held the official post of poet to the Theatre of
San Carlo. He afterwards entered the Museo Borbonico, as sub-director
of the collection generally, and curator of the splendid sculptural
department,--a position which led him to devote especial attention
to the then fresh explorations at Pompeii and Herculaneum. Here he
remained for fifteen years; with an interval of seven months, ending
with the Pope’s return in 1813, during which he was at Rome, summoned
thither by Murat as a member of the Provisional Government. Courses
of lectures and literary instruction also occupied his time. With the
restoration of King Ferdinand came the spread of Carbonarism; and
Rossetti enrolled himself as a member of that society of national
reformers. The short-lived constitution of 1821 succeeded--to expire
in nine months; leaving those who, like Rossetti, had hailed its
advent with enthusiasm, exposed to the rancour of tyrannic reaction.
His patriotic verses were his crime, and proved his rescue. The wife
of Admiral Sir Graham Moore had read and admired them: the Admiral was
then in Naples; and he prevailed on the poet to terminate by flight
the cruel suspense of three months’ concealment, and to embark on
board an English vessel in the disguise of a lieutenant. His first
asylum was Malta, where he enjoyed and appreciated the intimate
friendship of the Right Honourable J. Hookham Frere; two years
afterwards he proceeded to England.
“In this country, occupied in teaching Italian, and holding the
Professorship at King’s College, he engaged deeply in studies of the
letter and spirit of Dante’s imperishable works. The first-fruits of
his labours appeared in the ‘Analytic Comment’ on Dante, of which the
opening part only, the _Hell_, published in 1826 and 1827, has yet
seen the light. Rossetti’s leading idea (indicated in this work, and
enforced in subsequent productions with the fervour of a discoverer,
vast literary diligence, and indefatigable minuteness of criticism)
is that Dante, in common with numberless other great authors, wrote
in a language of secret allegory, which embodies, in the form now of
love, now of mythology, now of alchemy, now of freemasonry, the most
daring doctrines in metaphysics and politics. In 1832 was published
his work ‘On the Anti-Papal Spirit which produced the Reformation,
and on the secret influence which it exercised over the Literature of
Europe, and especially of Italy, as is proved by many of her Classics,
Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, in particular,’ (_Sullo Spirito
Antipapale_, etc.), a treatise which was translated into English; in
1840, ‘The Mystery of the Platonic Love of the Middle Ages, derived
from the Ancient Mysteries,’ (_Il Mistero dell’Amor Platonico_, etc.),
in five volumes; and in 1842, ‘A Critical Essay on Dante’s Beatrice’
(_La Beatrice di Dante_), the concluding parts of which remain in
manuscript, but have recently, we understand, been worked up into a
Frenchified concoction, issued, or to be issued, under the flaring
title, _Dante Hérétique, Républicain, et Socialiste_. Rossetti’s
criticisms have been much criticized. Fraticelli and Schlegel have
been his unmitigated opponents: Delécluze, in his _Amour du Dante_,
and the German philosopher Mendelssohn, promulgated, without entirely
committing themselves to, his views; an Italian writer of credit,
Vecchioni, has taken them up in labours of his own; and Arthur Hallam,
immortalized by Tennyson’s _In Memoriam_, has left a respectful though
adverse essay on the subject. In addition to these works, and others
of minor account, four poetical volumes attest both the constancy and
the versatility of Rossetti’s powers,--_Il Tempo_, _Salterio_, _Il
Veggente in Solitudine_, _Versi_, and _L’Arpa Evangelica_; the last
published not many months ago. Italy is not unmindful of his name.
“In private life Rossetti was thoroughly domestic and warm-hearted.
His family and literature formed his world, whence the talents for
society of which he possessed an ample share could not withdraw him.
No political exile leaves a memory more highly above the whisper of
public or private shame.”
Rossetti lies buried in Highgate Cemetery, with the following
inscription: “To the dear memory of my husband, Gabriele Rossetti; born
at Vasto d’Ammone in the Kingdom of Naples, 28th February 1783; died in
London, 26th April 1854.” “He shall return no more nor see his native
country.”--Jer. xxii. 10. “Now they desire a better country, that is an
heavenly.”--Heb. xi. 16. “Ah Dio ajutami Tu.”
The concluding phrase formed the last emphatic words which Rossetti
pronounced in a loud voice, in the evening of 25th April, after some
hours of approximate loss of speech. The remains of my mother, my
brother’s wife, and my sister Christina, are now interred in the same
grave. Towards 1871 a proposal was pressed upon us for transporting my
father’s remains to Italy, for ceremonial re-interment there; but the
feeling of most members of the family was adverse, and the project was
not carried out.
The tone of the versified Autobiography--which is a very genuine
document of his character and feelings--shows pretty well what manner
of man Gabriele Rossetti was; and in my Memoir of Dante Rossetti I
have given some details as to family-life and personal habits. Here,
therefore, I shall barely touch the fringe of the subject. It is not
for me to spy out every infirmity in my father’s character; and, even
were I to try to do so, I should find nothing worse to allege than a
phase of self-esteem which at times trenched upon self-complacency,
a disregard of externals in point of dress, etc., and an honourable
(and, in the circumstances which affected himself in England and his
family, a truly very requisite) habit of thriftiness which made him
count the cost of every personal indulgence, while nothing expedient
was stinted to his wife and children. I know him to have been
diligent, indefatigable, upright, high-minded, affectionate, grateful,
placable, eminently good-natured, vivacious, cheerful for the most
part, friendly, companionable: whether patriotic I need not say. Our
excellent friend Dr Adolf Heimann (Professor of German in University
College), writing to my brother a letter of condolence on our father’s
death, made the following observations, which I consider just:--“I
have never seen a more devoted man of letters; endowed with some of
the rarest gifts of a literary character, real love for literature,
unworldliness, perseverance, and warmth of interest both in writing and
reading at an advanced time of life. He might indeed have been a model
to all of us. When I look at all the great scholars and men of science
whom I have known, I do not remember one who was so little satisfied
with show as your father, who was so content with a comparatively
humble situation, and so wonderfully patient in times of affliction.”
[Illustration: FRANCES, MARIA, AND CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
_From a Photograph_
C. 1855.]
In person Gabriele Rossetti was barely up to middle height, fleshy
and full in contour until his health failed. His eyes were dark and
expressive, and did not alter when his sight was damaged; his brow
fine and well-rounded; his nose, though not specially large, more than
commonly prominent, with wide nostrils. His mouth was pleasant and
nicely moulded, with a winning smile, and on occasion a laugh of the
heartiest.
APPENDIX
I HAVE now said as much as I feel to be requisite by way of explaining
and supplementing my father’s versified Autobiography, and shall
proceed to give some further illustrative matter in the form of five
Appendices.
1. Extracts from six of the domestic letters of Gabriele Rossetti.
2. Extracts from eight of those which he addressed to Mr Charles Lyell
on the subject of his Dantesque and other literary researches.
3. Extracts from three letters of the Barone Kirkup regarding Dante,
etc.
4. Twelve letters from Mazzini--all but one addressed to Rossetti.
5. Six specimens of Rossetti’s poetry.
Under each of these five headings I add a few explanatory remarks.
NO. 1.--FROM SIX LETTERS FROM GABRIELE ROSSETTI TO HIS
WIFE
I give these letters (translated by me) for what they are worth; not
as being of any singular degree of interest in the topics which they
raise, or in the mode of treating these, but chiefly for the purpose
of showing what was the prevalent and constant tone of Rossetti in his
family-relations. Two of his children, Dante Gabriel and Christina
Georgina, have turned out to be of some moment to the British public,
and some hint of their childish or youthful doings will be here found.
In these letters I leave some gaps: in the great majority of cases this
is only done because the omitted passages are of no importance. Holmer
Green, the locality to which the first five letters are addressed,
is in Buckinghamshire, near Little Missenden and Amersham: Gaetano
Polidori, my maternal grandfather, along with his family, resided there
for several years. The final letter was addressed to Mrs Rossetti at
Brighton.
A.
[Mr Potter, here mentioned, was Mr Cipriani Potter, Principal of the
Royal Academy of Music, a distinguished pianist, and composer of
pianoforte-music. He was my godfather, and his family was the only
British family of which our household saw a goodish deal in these
early years. I infer that “the drama” which my father had written, and
which was to be paid for with £40, was a set of scenes named _Medora e
Corrado_ (after Byron’s _Corsair_),--Mr Potter having been concerned in
composing music to these scenes: such a sum as £40 appears to be ample
remuneration for it. “Mrs Fitch” was our servant at this date: I have
naturally no recollection of Dante Gabriel’s performance which amused
her, nor yet of Signor Barile. Henry and Charlotte, named along with
Barile, were my Uncle and Aunt: also Robert and Eliza.]
[38 CHARLOTTE STREET, LONDON.]
_4th May 1831._
MY DEAREST FRANCES,
No doubt you have been indignant at my long silence, full fourteen
days. Don’t attribute it to want of love, but to my wish to write you
something which might partly relieve the anxiety which you only too
much share with me. Know therefore, dear wife, that our affairs are
proceeding less amiss. At the present date I have seventeen lessons
a week, and I am expecting others.... Mr Potter, who sends his best
regards, saw me this morning, and he told me that Mrs Howard also will
soon resume her lessons; and he expressly added, of his own accord,
that it seems to be time for him to give me the £40 for the drama. I
hope to put you, on your return, in possession of some £80 at home;
and perhaps we shall be getting as much at the end of the season.
Be in good spirits then, Frances mine, because that God who gives
nourishment to worms in the earth will not abandon us, with our four
little children, innocent and in need.
I have not slackened in trying for King’s College, and many persons
have interested themselves in my behalf. The Principe di Cimitile, who
recommended me to some member of the Council of the College, learned
from him that the election of Professors depends chiefly on the Bishop
of London; and I quickly procured two letters of introduction to the
Bishop. Mr Barclay, who is his intimate friend, gave me one, and the
other came from Sir Gore Ouseley, who has also handed me two others
for two patrons of the College. I trust that Providence will second my
efforts.
The affairs of Italy also resume a better aspect; and it is officially
notified that the French Government has sent a representative to
Rome, to dissuade from shedding the blood of the poor patriots, who
have behaved with admirable moderation. Poland is darting like a
thunderbolt against Russia.
Two or three days after your departure I received another letter from
Mr Lyell, in which he asks me briefly to suspend sending him the MS.
you wot of, as he was about to start for a different part of England;
adding that by the end of a month he would come in person to see us
in London. I fancy that he has gone to present himself as a candidate
for the new Parliament. People are all in motion for this purpose;
but it seems that Reform will triumph, and the anti-reformers will
get more and more into the mire. God forbid that this Bill should
not pass--there would certainly be a revolution. All say so, and the
symptoms are manifest....
I trust that you and our children have always been well: speak of them
to me one by one when you write. I was so much pleased at what you
told me about Gabriel in your last; and it made Mrs Fitch laugh so
that she recounted it to all who came here--Henry, Charlotte, and also
Signor Barile.... Salute cordially for me Robert and Eliza: God give
them patience with those four babbykins, and especially with that dear
impertinent, Gabriel. In your last you told me nothing about either
William or Christina: make up for your omission. Every syllable you
write about them is a boon to me....
Your loving
GABRIELE.
B.
[Mr Tallent, here mentioned, was the medical adviser of the family
at Holmer Green; Mr MacIntyre (living near Portland Place) was often
consulted towards this time in London. About Maestro Negri and the
drama I have no clear idea: possibly it was _Il Corsaro_, for Rossetti
wrote some “Scene Melodrammatiche” under this title, as well as the
“Cantata Melodrammatica” of _Medora e Corrado_. The person termed “Mr
Charles” was the painter Mr (afterwards Sir) Charles Locke Eastlake:
“my new work,” which he admired, was the _Spirito Antipapale_.]
[38 CHARLOTTE STREET, LONDON.]
_15th May 1832._
MY DEAREST FRANCES,
... I should indeed like to see our skittish Christina, with those
rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, so like her grandmother’s, walking all
alone about the garden, like a little butterfly among the flowers. I
hope that, thanks to the beneficial change of air, I shall soon see
her still prettier and still healthier than you describe her to me
now. To tell you the truth, I think Mr Tallent’s advice is better
than Mr MacIntyre’s. It is high time to wean her.... You cannot think
how much pleasure those childish English words which you gathered
from the lips of Maria and Gabriel gave me. If they are truthful, I
thank Heaven that they are good children, and that they do not tire
your mother too much with their noise and their impudence. I mean to
send them some new little picture-books which will amuse them; and
also a box of figs, in order that you may at times reward their good
behaviour and satisfy their small greed. Poor little things! They used
to await my return home so eagerly, so as to receive the trifles I had
brought them! And now neither they nor I have that pleasure....
This evening Casella arrived here quite out of breath to announce that
the King has again dismissed the Duke of Wellington from the ministry,
and has recalled Lord Grey with all his ministerial following; thus
rectifying the error he had committed. And indeed he could not act
otherwise in order to calm the huge agitation which was on foot
throughout the country, and principally in this metropolis. The Duke
of Wellington has had the mortification of being unable to find any
one who would consent to form the Cabinet with him; Sir Robert Peel
refused, Lord Aberdeen refused; all refused when they perceived the
peril in which they would place themselves. A pretty figure they have
cut--the great Captain and His Majesty,--this latter so changeable
and deceitful, and the former first deserted and then sent about his
business! It is a hard task to oppose the will of a whole people.
It is just 11 o’clock as I write to you, and I hear “_The Courier_,
fourth edition,” being called out by several voices past the house....
Let us take heart, Providence will not forsake us. You know, my wife,
that we have had recent proofs of its assistance; here is another.
Yesterday the son of the Maestro Negri called on me bringing me the
answer from those young ladies who, as you know, wished for a drama;
he showed me a letter from them in which the matter is revived. I
have had to lower my price, however, and content myself with thirty
guineas....
Two days ago, a great Italian littérateur, Professor Orioli, head of
the Bologna University, and head of the Italian Government during
last year’s revolution, visited me, and paid me a great compliment on
my new work. Mr Scrope, with whom I dined last Saturday, also said
some very laudatory things about it, which he based on the opinion of
_Mr Charles_, who had read it; the latter afterwards expressed his
admiration to me in person. Last week I wrote two long letters to
Malta to thank Mr and Miss Frere for their very opportune generosity,
which saved us from imminent anxieties.
The day before yesterday I bought myself a pair of spectacles, which
I felt badly in need of; and now, if you could see what an imposing
figure I cut, and what a grave air they give me, it would inspire even
you with respect. When you return you will certainly take me for a
president. I will not tell you how much they cost, because you would
immediately conclude that my spectacles were bad, and yet they serve
their purpose wonderfully well....
Hitherto my stupid prophecy has not been at all fulfilled, and this
letter is witness to the fact: and I pray to God that he may not
fulfil it till I have been able, with your help, to educate and give
a start in life to our four dear offshoots, who have rendered life
extremely dear to me; and I hope to pass it in your sweet company, in
that reciprocal affection which has hitherto bound us together....
Your most affectionate husband,
GABRIELE.
C.
[The “garden” here spoken of is the enclosure of Park Square, Regent’s
Park; I can remember being in it more than once in early childhood.
Sangiovanni, a strange impetuous southern Italian, was now an
artist-modeller in clay. Dr Maroncelli was a brother of the prisoner
who was sent to the Spielberg along with Silvio Pellico, as recorded in
Pellico’s book, once highly celebrated, _Le Mie Prigioni_. “My letter
for the King of Naples” appears to have been a memorial or petition.
Pistrucci (Filippo) had been run down in London streets, and remained
lame (yet still active) up to the close of his life, which terminated
towards 1857.]
[38 CHARLOTTE STREET, LONDON.]
_29th May 1832._
MY DEARLY LOVED FRANCES,
I would that I had not received your letter this time, although I had
looked forward to it and desired it so eagerly. Every word you wrote
pierced like a dagger into my heart. My sweetest Gabriel, then, is
so ill! My baby Christina suffers with her teeth and has wounded her
forehead! Oh my poor children! If the distance were less great, I
would come immediately to see my four treasures, and you, my beloved
wife, who must be immensely afflicted, as I am myself. And William,
you tell me nothing about him. You told me in your last letter that
he had a return of those fevers from which he suffered here: and now,
how is that going on?--how is he? As you do not speak about it, I will
hope and trust that he has recovered. Be good enough, dear Frances, to
write to me at once and tell me all about them; hide from me nothing,
absolutely nothing. I wish to know the facts, be they better or be
they worse.... I beg you, I beg you urgently, to return immediately if
Gabriel’s condition permits. I wish to share with you the care of my
bantlings. I would never have written you this but for this painful
circumstance, but would have been content to remain a cheerless hermit
for another month; but, now that I see that your presence instead of
improving only aggravates the condition of your honoured mother to
whom we owe every consideration, now that I see that our children,
instead of benefiting by the country air, have rather derived harm
from it (although I ought perhaps to attribute this to other causes),
I should feel dreadfully anxious if you remained any longer away from
me. Who knows but what the figs I sent may have done them harm! But
this constant change of weather has more likely been the cause, first
hot, then cold, now hot again. This belief is strengthened by your
telling me that Maria and Christina have sore throats.... I should be
the most frantic and inconsolable man in the world if I were to lose a
son, that dearest little Gabriel, the very core of my heart, and lose
him thus, far from my sight. My eyes are already full of tears whilst
writing these words, and unless I dry them I cannot continue writing,
as I do not see the paper. But take heart, my wife, it may turn out to
be nothing serious.
Here, meanwhile, is one cause for rejoicing. I have already obtained
the key of the garden for which you so often wished.... I have already
been five times for a stroll in the garden, the first time alone, the
second time with Polidori, the third with him and Sangiovanni, the
fourth again with him and Doctor Maroncelli, one of those two who
called on me one evening in company with Lablache. This walk is very
convenient, and the children will find plenty of space to walk and run
about here and there....
I have already written three scenes of that play for the young ladies,
which I have given to the son of Maestro Negri....
Count Lucchesi has told me a thing which he had never mentioned to
me before. When he went with my letter to the King of Naples, about
which you heard, he found the Minister of Naples reading my last work,
dedicated to Mr Lyell. The Minister said to him: “What a talented
man this Rossetti is! You see what persons the government of Naples
exiles!” It is well, dear Frances, that this diplomatist should not be
ignorant of what I have written; and, if it is granted me to return
to my country, before doing so I will send the work to the King
of Naples, so that he will not be able to say later on that I had
committed some old faults of which he was unaware. On Friday I dined
with that painter whom I described to you by the name of Mr Charles....
I will close this letter begging you again to write to me at once,
during the course of this week. Remember that until I hear from you
again I shall be extremely agitated. Don’t conceal anything from me,
I repeat. If you did so, you would force me to rush off to you like
a madman, to ascertain with my own eyes the real state of things.
Besides which it might cause me a somewhat serious ill; since for
some six days I have felt distressing and strong symptoms of gout,
which causes me much uneasiness. I needn’t ask you to look after the
children, because I hold it unnecessary; I know you too well. I doubt
whether there lives a better mother than you, and a wife more amiable
and affectionate has yet to be born. And so your husband idolizes you,
and his sincerest love increases with years, and he considers himself
fortunate in possessing such a rare woman.
Goodbye, dearly loved Frances, I am going to bed for it is one
o’clock. I bless one by one the infant pledges of our love, and invoke
on them health and prosperity. Kiss them for me, speak about me to
them, and--along with theirs--preserve your precious health, which is
my greatest treasure.
Yesterday poor Pistrucci wrote me a letter which really is fit to make
one weep. He says he is suffering horrible torments, and it has been
discovered that his thigh was broken in three parts, so that he is
crippled. Poor man!
Your most affectionate husband,
GABRIELE ROSSETTI.
D.
[I have no recollection of the Marchesa Marchigiana, nor of Signor
Ferri. The physiognomical estimate of Signor Janer is curious, because
that gentleman, a cultivated Tuscan whom we saw continually in these
years, was regarded as somewhat prone to backbiting; he was always,
however, on good terms with my father and his family, and I should say
that he was really amicable with all of us. Margaret, named towards the
end of the letter, was my mother’s elder sister.]
50 CHARLOTTE STREET [LONDON].
_6th September 1836._
MY DEAREST FRANCES,
... At the moment of my writing a very deluge is coming
down--lightning, thunder, buckets of water. I am sorry for poor
Gabriel, who is out for a walk with Henry....
That Marchesa Marchigiana left yesterday morning (Sunday), and in the
last two days she called on me thrice. On the evening of Saturday she
came at eight, and left at midnight. She talked for ten. She expressed
great concern for your illness, and exclaimed several times--“Oh,
if I had seen her, I would have made her know what a husband she
possesses!” To hear her, I am the idol of Italy. She knows by heart a
great quantity of my verses, some of which I had as good as forgotten.
Suffice it to say that she knows more of them than Curci, and is more
enthusiastic than Curci about me and my doings. But the greatest
wonder is that she recites long snatches of my _Analytic Comment on
the Divina Commedia_. She told me that, being unable to procure it
in print (as it is prohibited in Italy), she copied it all out from
one that was lent her in secret. That many other people have done the
like. That of my _Salterio_ (the _whole_ of which she truly knows by
heart) she is acquainted with a great number of manuscript copies.
That in Rome a liberal Monsignore named Muzzarelli has, like herself,
copied it out, and learned it off. That, were I to return, in passing
through Romagna, youthful admirers would come about me in shoals, and
would unharness the horses from my carriage to drag me in triumph.
Matter for laughter! Sangiovanni, who was present at all this (which
I can but suppose exaggerated), had to wipe his eyes from time to
time--the loving friend. In short, dear Frances, without your having
observed it nor yet myself, you have as husband the greatest man of
Italy, indeed the idol of Italy! Who would ever have fancied it?
The best of it is that another gentleman from Lugo has arrived, Conte
Carducci, who brings me a letter from Comendator Borgia (a descendant
of that scoundrel Alexander VI.), and both Carducci and Borgia speak
to me in the same style.... This shows once again that the physical
optics are the reverse of the imaginary; for, as by physics distant
objects seem to us small, so by imagination small objects, the further
off they are, seem the larger. I should be almost afraid of returning,
even if I could, so that I might not verify that saying, _Minuit
præsentia famam_.
The Marchesa gave us a proof of her physiognomic science which made
me and Sangiovanni laugh a great deal. She saw here Janer, whom she
knew not in the least, and who showed her a thousand civilities. After
Janer had left, she, who had treated him distantly, called me aside,
and said: “Beware of that man, who has the face of a great intriguer
and a very cunning fellow.” Isn’t this queer?...
With her came a very handsome young man from Fermo, named Ferri,
nephew of Cardinal Ferri. He, on hearing the nature of your illness,
spoke of one of his of the same class, from which he has recovered
to the most perfect health. He was reduced, as he described it, to
a truly deplorable condition, from which he rallied by continual
exercise; and if one sees him now!
“Di due rivali i pregi in sè compone--
Marte alla forza, alla bellezza Adone--”[81]
(old verses of mine). So, my dear Frances, take as much exercise as
you can....
Lo and behold, the day is again beautiful, and what a brilliant sun!
Truly the climate of London is more changeable than a Frenchwoman.
Gabriel is knocking with that double knock of his like the postman. I
trust he avoided the rain under some shelter--will go and ask. He has
returned all drenched, and Margaret will make him change clothes....
I embrace you, and bless Maria. Repeat to her that her letter gave
me great pleasure; and tell her that I expect one in Italian, which
will serve not only to show me how you are, when you don’t want to be
writing yourself, but also to keep her in the practice of the language
of “the beautiful land.” Believe me, full of unalterable affection,
Your Husband,
GABRIELE.
E.
[50 CHARLOTTE STREET, LONDON.
_21st October 1836._]
MY DEAREST FRANCES,
Ever since you informed us that the day of your longed-for return
would be the 25th of this October (which will complete two full months
of your absence) we have never ceased to count, every day, how many
days remain before reaching the one which is to restore you to us.
The most steady computer of this sum is Christina. This morning,
barely just out of bed, she came in great glee into the room where I
was studying, and the first words she spoke were these--“Not counting
to-day, only three days remain” (you will understand that the day of
my writing is Friday evening). And I’m sure that to-morrow morning
she will come and say, “There are only two remaining.” ... If you
will tell us at about what hour you will arrive at the Coach-office,
we will all come to meet you, and will bring you home in triumph,
outbidding the most pompous ovations of ancient Rome.... Oh that I
had two arms as long as from here to Holmer Green! you would find
your neck clasped of a sudden by the warmest marital embrace, and you
would then be softly seized hold of and deposited in Charlotte Street,
saving you the trouble of the journey by the road: yours should be
aërial, to beat those of Mrs Graham and Mr Green.... The true, the
one treasure of my life is my dear Frances, and to restore her to me
renewed in health is to restore my existence. Goodbye to the better
portion of myself. Three days hence you, by God’s help, will be here
with me, and I will prove to you how much you are loved by
Your Husband,
GABRIELE.
F.
[Dante Gabriel had been commissioned by his godfather, Mr Lyell, to
paint an oil-portrait of our father; he was now, after some seeming
neglectfulness, giving full attention to the matter. The portrait,
nearly his first painting, turned out a creditable work; it remains in
the Lyell family, the property of Sir Leonard Lyell, and is reproduced
in this volume.]
[50 CHARLOTTE STREET, LONDON.]
_21st August 1848._
MY DEAREST FRANCES,
I have the satisfaction of informing you that this (Monday) morning
our Gabriel has for an hour and a half been working at my portrait
in colours, which appears to me to come very like, if I can trust my
poor eyesight, and the exclamations of our emphatic Maria. Moreover,
I asked Gabriel whether he would go on to-morrow, and he replied yes.
If he takes a fancy to it, he will not leave off until he has finished
the work; you know that character of his better than myself. I am
fain to hope that all I wrote you in my recent letter was only the
outcome of the over-much anxiety of a father who gets distressed at
any appearance of evil in what concerns a beloved son....
[Illustration: DANTE GABRIEL AND WILLIAM ROSSETTI
_From a Water-Colour Sketch by Filippo Pistrucci_
C. 1838]
I had hoped yesterday to see Pistrucci, whom I supposed likely to
come to London, to promote the concert for the benefit of the Italian
School. But I was disappointed. I trust he was not offended at that
outburst I sent him regarding the demagogues who have contributed to
the present ruin of Italy. He, as the perfectly sincere patriot whom
all men recognize, must deplore, or rather detest, whatever can have
been a cause of the pitiful state to which our country is reduced. But
let us hope that the disaster is reparable, and I am certain that his
heart desires this no less fervently than my own. I am aware of the
glorious event at Bologna, where the Germans got a good lesson. May
this be the glorious beginning of a still more glorious re-arising!
I know that France and England have become mediators between Italy
and Austria in this bloody strife; may they be sincere and effectual
mediators for the good of both, and may the _reasonable liberty_ of
our poor country result from their efforts! Not every evil comes to do
harm--an old adage: let us hope this may be so in our case. Perhaps
the republican over-zeal will be toned down, after the events which we
are deploring....
Now that I can give you better news from home, I remain with a more
cheerful heart
Your loving Husband,
G. ROSSETTI.
NO. 2.—FROM EIGHT LETTERS FROM GABRIELE ROSSETTI TO
CHARLES LYELL, KINNORDY
[As to Mr Lyell, see p. 72. I give the following extracts, bearing upon
Rossetti’s theories and speculations regarding Dante and a great number
of other writers, not because I suppose him to have been constantly
right in detail, nor even as adopting his views in a broad sense, but
because the allegations which he here puts forward are certainly both
curious and startling; and they formed so intimate a portion of his
thought and life, chiefly between the years 1825 and 1842, that no
true picture of him could be given without taking matters of this kind
into account. The correspondence between Mr Lyell and my father was
frequent, and often lengthy. I used to possess the general bulk of the
letters written by Mr Lyell, and had been authorized by the present
head of the family, Sir Leonard Lyell, to use, in a compilation which
I was undertaking, extracts from many of them. In 1898, however, an
interchange took place between Sir Leonard and myself; and I now own
the letters which my father wrote, in lieu of letters coming from Mr
Lyell. In comparison with the full extent of these Rossetti epistles,
the extracts which I give are a mere trifle. I have selected not
always the most important passages, but such as tend to show the very
wide range along which he applied his theory of a covert, esoteric,
and perilous meaning in the writings of authors of many centuries
and many nations. Copies of Rossetti’s letters to Lyell, one hundred
and twenty-eight in number, are deposited in the Taylor Institution,
Oxford; the copying was done by Signor de Tivoli.
There is another copious correspondence which my father carried on
regarding the like topics--that with Mr Hookham Frere. I possess the
letters of Mr Frere appertaining to this correspondence, and also
(through the courtesy of Mr John Tudor Frere and Miss Festing) those
of Rossetti. I had at one time thought of publishing ample extracts
from this series; but ultimately I found it more suitable to place the
correspondence at the disposal of Miss Festing, who, in her interesting
book named _John Hookham Frere and his Friends_ (1899), has drawn upon
it so far as was consistent with her scheme. She has also quoted the
passage in verse about Hookham Frere (see p. 60 of the present work).
Miss Festing naturally did not publish all the letters _in extenso_,
nor even so much of them as I had at first proposed to extract. Several
passages which Miss Festing did not use seem well worthy of being
printed at some time or another--Mr Hookham Frere’s letters, not to
speak of my father’s, being capital reading; at present, however,
I leave all this aside, chiefly with a view to condensing my whole
account of Gabriele Rossetti into a moderate space.]
A.
_29th October 1831._
MY VERY DEAR SIR,
... I have by me _decisive_ historical records and documents,
researches into works in the sect-language,[82] treatises on the use
of the sect-language; in fine, I have as much as would make all our
adversaries remain frost-bound and mute. And to me it is a kind of
enigma to see how matters so multiple, so consentaneous, so palpable,
which have been going on in a lapse of six centuries (from Frederick
II. up to our time), have not ever been either discerned or revealed.
There is not the least doubt that that Emperor projected a change
of religion, and the destruction of the Roman Church. The Popes had
no alternative but either to destroy him and his party, or else to
be themselves destroyed, and their cult with them. That opinion of
Foscolo, regarded by all as a fantasy, which led him to say that
_Dante wished to change the religion_, is a certain fact; and his
fantasy consists only in his having supposed that this was an idea of
Dante’s own, and not that of a most numerous, most potent, and most
wide-spread sect, upheld by men of great power....
Never will I set it down, _never_, that there was a project of
expelling Jesus Christ from the altars--only that there was a project
for restoring His worship to its primitive simplicity, and that they
profaned the Catholic doctrine by a concerted phraseology which
involved a political scheme. Wherefore scandalize the world by the
revelation of a daring purpose which may do discredit to illustrious
authors, and bring down upon myself the ill-will of the sect which
still exists, and has power and influence in the social world? The
fact is that the true intention of that secret society, to which
belonged all the authors whom I am engaged in examining, manifested
itself plainly in the effects of the French Revolution at the close of
last century....
Reghellini says openly that Dante’s poem is a Masonic poem; and,
before he wrote this, I had already seen it for myself....
I have also made some examination of English poetry--that of the time
of Cromwell; I know, however, and know for certain, that Chaucer is in
the same boat....
Your highly obliged
GABRIELE ROSSETTI.
B.
_1st October 1832._
MY VERY DEAR SIR,
... It is impossible to continue without exhibiting the most intimate
mysteries of the sect, seeing that the entire poem of Dante, all the
lyrics of Petrarca, almost all the works of Boccaccio, and, in fine,
all the old writings of that class, are nothing else than _downright
doctrine and practice of the Freemasons_, in the strictest acceptation
of the word. Such was the Gay Science, such the Platonic love, such
the sect of the Templars, and that of the Paulicians. How true this is
you will find in the published volume,[83] with numberless manuscript
additions which I have made to it.... There you will see developed
the God of the Sect--viz. Man in Freedom; there, also, the Sectarian
Trinity, the Incarnation, Transubstantiation, and other matters....
But it is dangerous to consign the work to the public, and the chief
danger is this: The demonstration cannot be _rightly_ founded, so as
to defy confutation, without citing in confirmation the writings of St
Paul and those of St John. One might make use of protests, dexterity,
or even hypocrisy, but none the less one must state the thing which
is; and, if one will not state this, one is compelled to stop short at
the effects, and leave the cause unexplained, which makes less visible
and tangible the reality of the assumption....
I see with regret that the assertion of many Sectarian writers,
and among others of Swedenborg, is not without foundation--namely,
that the religion founded upon the New Testament is, in fact, the
religion which they profess, of which _we_ practise the letter, and
_they_ possess the spirit: we are the outer church, and they form the
hereditary priesthood. Be this true or false, great indeed is the
illusion which it assails;[84] and to bring this to light would be an
offence against the human society in which we exist....
I now comprehend why the _Mysterium Magnum_ was never manifested
to the world. It is confided to very few persons, of well-approved
prudence, and at an age of thorough maturity; and to discover it by
one’s own scrutiny is a work of immense labour, and (I will venture
to say) of no ordinary talent.... I know that Mr Frere belongs to the
secret order; and, having perceived what it is that I have already
discovered by analysis and reasoning, he fears lest I should reveal it
to the world. I am not so mad as to plan detriment to society, and to
myself....
With regard to the chapter, _Dante personified in Adam_, this, though
not demonstrated in full, has none the less a great basis of proofs in
other chapters; and its substance is that Dante was the inventor of
that simulated religious language. Perhaps, on reading some additions
which I have made, you will more strongly feel the reality of the
thesis....
Your much obliged Servant,
GABRIELE ROSSETTI.
C.
_15th May 1833._
MY VERY DEAR SIR,
“Non io, se cento bocche avessi e cento
Lingue, con ferrea lena e ferreo petto,”[85]
not if I were to talk for a hundred years with the eloquence of Cicero
himself, could I sufficiently thank you for having first mentioned
and then sent to me the _Donna Immaginaria_ of Magalotti. Oh what a
precious book for proving to the over-brim my assumption!...
In these recent days I have made some most important discoveries
in the _Convito_: of these I will give you a hint, but only a
hint, as the thing would be lengthy to expound. Being persuaded
that the _Convito_ is the exposition, in the sect-language, of the
_Commedia_ and its secrets, I, observing that Dante dwells so much
upon explaining the cosmographical construction of heaven and earth,
and confident that he must be speaking of his poem, have been minded
to follow the track which he indicates; and I have found (_mirabile
dictu!_) that all corresponds to the poem. Begin reading at p. 153
(Zatta’s edition), here at the end; “This heaven turns round this
centre continually,” etc.; all that he says--verily all--expounds the
arcane structure of his poetic machinery, and discloses its secret
device....
Your much obliged
G. ROSSETTI.
D.
_13th January 1836._
VERY DEAR SIR AND EXCELLENT FRIEND,
... The interpretation of the _Vita Nuova_ depends upon knowing what
portions of it are to be taken first, and what portions are to be
taken last. This enigmatic booklet contains thirty-three compositions
(_vide_ your Index), relating to the thirty-three cantos of each
section of the _Commedia_. These thirty-three poetic compositions are
to be divided into three parts, according to those three sections,
and to the three predominant canzoni of the _Vita Nuova_. The central
canzone, which is “Donna pietosa,” is the head of the skein, and from
that point must the interpretation begin; and then one must take,
on this side and on that, the four lateral sonnets to the left, and
the four to the right--(the last one to the right has been somewhat
altered by Dante, with the designation of one stanza of an incomplete
canzone, but it is in fact a sonnet, as I will prove)--and the one
set of sonnets will explain the other set; and it will be seen that
the death of Beatrice’s father, set forth on the left side, and the
death of Beatrice herself, set forth on the right side, of the central
canzone, mean one and the same thing. This is the first part of the
enigma.
On this side and on that follow the two canzoni, placed
symmetrically--viz. “Donne che avete intelletto d’amore” on the
left, and “Gli occhi dolenti per pietà del core” on the right. In
the former it is decided that Beatrice is to die; in the second,
Beatrice dead is lamented; and the one canzone explains the other.
And thus, proceeding from one side to the other, collating the ten
compositions to the right with the ten to the left, we come finally
to the first and the last sonnets of the _Vita Nuova_, which contain
two visions; and the last vision, “Oltre la spera che più larga gira,”
explains the first vision, “A ciascun’alma presa e gentil core.”
When the interpretation goes on these lines, this sonnet becomes as
clear as possible. Dante, assuming his reader to be already cognizant
of the mystical language, and to be capable of solving by this
process his work which has the character of a knot, wrote: “The true
judgment as to the said sonnet was not then seen by any one, but now
it is manifest to the simplest.”... The central part [of the _Vita
Nuova_], which constitutes the Beatrice Nine,[86] consists of nine
compositions--_i.e._ the central canzone, with four sonnets on one
side and four on the other....
Recently I have been applying myself to a study of the first Holy
Fathers of the primitive Church; and they say plainly that they, in
the inner Sacerdotal School, explained the _mysteries_ of religion,
protesting at the same time that they could reveal nothing of this
to the profane. I have passages from St Basil, a light of the Greek
Church, which show that these personages acted like the gentile
school....
Your truly devoted and obliged
G. ROSSETTI.
E.
_14th January 1836._
VERY DEAR SIR AND FRIEND,
... The object or system of the secret school, in explaining the
mysteries, is to show that those whom we take for beings existing
outside of ourselves, and who are represented to us as such by
the Christian doctrine, are none other than our internal ideas or
affections; that is to say, that those supernatural personages who
are exhibited to men as divine are the human faculties themselves,
personified by ancient secret art; and that these figurative
personages merge the one into the other, and interpenetrate and unify
in one sole being--namely, in Man. The ultimate revelation.
This is equally the system of Dante, both in the _Divine Comedy_ and
in the _Vita Nuova_--which latter gives the keys of the former....
Origen and Tertullian, as well as Synesius, Bishop of Cyrene, give in
the sect-language the keys to the whole New Testament, and partly to
the Old:... the selfsame explanation which is given in the mysteries
of the present still-subsisting sect.
From the writings of the latter I gather that the secret school of the
Christian priesthood is continued by Masonry; that one of the heads of
the school in Constantine’s time, Sylvester, came to an understanding
with that despot to suppress the secret explanation, and to retain
merely the formula of the external figures, which understanding
produced the papacy or priesthood of Rome; but that other chiefs of
the same school, indignant at his having sold the interests of mankind
to the secular power, severed themselves from him and persisted in the
secret teaching,--which went on to the late ages (and here we arrive
at Dante), and so continued up to our own times.
F.
_16th December 1836._
MY VERY DEAR SIR,
I cannot sufficiently express to you how much pleasure it affords me
to hear from you, “What you have written[87] has convinced me.”...
Despite every effort, the nature of the argument wells forth of
itself, and almost overflows the dykes which I labour to erect and
strengthen. And I regret to tell you (far from rejoicing at it) that
in the successive chapters the evidence increases to such a point
as to belie all my words, which heal, assuage, and soften down the
nature of the thing. Oh how much have I done to disguise it, but all
in vain! I confess to you my misdeed: in that which you have read,
or which you will be reading, I have suppressed all those passages
of the authorities that I quote which exhibit the secret overtly.
I have quoted in a maimed form Petrarca, Boccaccio, and especially
Swedenborg.... For example, this Swede writes that the entire Bible,
both the Old Testament and the New, is written in that selfsame
language in which he writes, and that his is none other than a
prolongation of that. He says that the Prophets saw God no otherwise
than he saw him; that there is no other future life than that which
he describes, in which one dies a man, and revives as an angel to a
new life; that there are not any other heavens nor another God than
those to which he ascended, and that with whom he spoke; and other
similar things: all of them expunged by me, even in the thick of the
citation which I make. These utterances of his may have illuded the
world, before it was understood, by giving the keys, what heaven is,
and what the angels and God are; but, the keys having been given, the
propositions become horrible and scandalous....
Your very affectionate and oblige
G. ROSSETTI.
G.
_21st July 1840._
MY VERY DEAR SIR,
... I could send you a hundred things of the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries which I have amassed in my extracts. I will limit myself to
two sonnets of the famous Raphael of Urbino; and judge you whether he
was not of the sect--like his contemporary, Michelangelo Buonarroti,
and very many others who were in the environment of the Pope.
“Un pensier dolce è _rimembrare_, e godo.”[88]
Raphael’s second sonnet. He, having descended from the _third heaven_
(like St Paul), writes thus:
“Come non potè dir d’arcana Dei
Paolo come disceso fù dal cielo,
Così il mio cor d’un amoroso velo
Ha ricoperto tutt’i pensier miei.
Però che quanto io vidi e quanto fei (in the third heaven)
Per gaudio taccio che nel petto celo;
E prima cangerò nel fronte il pelo
Che mai l’obbligo volger pensier rei.”[89]
... Pico della Mirandola, Molza, and other contemporaries, speak of
this third heaven in the same mysterious manner, and agree with what
St Bernard, Swedenborg, Cecco d’Ascoli, Dante, etc., say of it....
Oh how much can be gathered from the Latin writings of Poliziano! Far
more than even from those of Tasso....
Your greatly obliged and obedient
G. ROSSETTI.
H.
_1st February 1842._
MY VERY DEAR SIR,
... Have you ever read _Le Livre Mystique_ of De Balzac, a living
French author--a book published in 1836? Read it, for it is truly
curious. It is divided into three parts, and expounds mysticism in
mystic language, somewhat less obscure than in the ancient works
of like kind. In the first part he introduces a certain Louis
Lambert as expounder of mysticism; in the second he introduces
Dante at the school of Sigier in Paris, “al Vico degli Strami,
Sillogizzando invidiosi veri”:[90] in the third he introduces a
nephew of Swedenborg, _female and male_, a fantastic and changeful
being, Seraphita-Seraphitus; and she-and-he expresses herself in
terms fit to set the soundest head in a whirl,--and says among other
things: “L’union qui se fait d’un _esprit d’amour_ et d’un _esprit de
sagesse_ met la créature à l’état _divin_, pendant que son âme est
_femme_ et que son corps est _homme_; dernière expression humaine où
l’esprit l’emporte sur la forme, et la forme se débat encore contre
l’esprit divin.... Ainsi _le naturel_ (état dans lequel sont les êtres
non régénérés), _le spirituel_ (état dans lequel sont les esprits
angéliques), et _le divin_ (état dans lequel demeure l’ange avant
de briser son enveloppe), sont _les trois degrés_ de l’exister par
lesquels l’homme parvient au ciel.” (Vol. II. p. 102.) And so on to
a large extent. What seems to me most noticeable is to see Dante and
Swedenborg put on the same footing. And Reghellini says plainly that
Dante was a Freemason (_vide_ Vol. III. pp. 48, 49). And Ragon affirms
the same (pp. 290-332)....
Your most attached
G. ROSSETTI.
NO. 3.--FROM THREE LETTERS FROM SEYMOUR [BARONE] KIRKUP TO
GABRIELE ROSSETTI
[Mr Seymour Kirkup, an English painter and man of letters established
in Florence, became an enthusiastic adherent to Rossetti’s scheme of
Dantesque interpretation, from reading his Comment on the _Inferno_
and his _Spirito Antipapale_. In his later years he was made a Barone
of the Italian Kingdom, and he died at a great age towards 1880. The
following extracts relate chiefly to the deeply interesting discovery,
in which he bore a very principal part, of the portrait of Dante by
Giotto in the Chapel of the Podestà, in the Bargello of Florence.]
A.
FLORENCE, _12th September 1840_.
MY VERY EXCELLENT FRIEND,
Yours of the 22nd July came safe with the Sonnet, “O della mente
eterna immago e prole.” It is very beautiful. It is capital. Let me
thank you very sincerely, and let me congratulate you on Germany being
about to enjoy the benefit of your invaluable discoveries. Every new
country is a triumph of your cause; and, whilst all Europe will be
benefiting by your genius and learning, Italy alone remains without
an Italian edition of the original Italian work on the great luminary
of Italy and of the world. In Florence there are too many obstacles:
the priests, and the antiquated routine imbecility of the Crusca. The
word-mongers are all envious. They are true bran, and well sifted from
the fior di pensieri. They are old, and find your success a reproach,
and in this country all hue and cry raised against innovation is
supported by force. The tone of the court and the police is carried
into the Academies. Well may you say “L’Italia invidia omai fin la
Turchia.”
I have delayed writing in the hopes of sending you a sketch which will
interest you, but I have hitherto been disappointed. We have made
a discovery of an original portrait of Dante in fresco by Giotto!
Although I was a magna pars in this undertaking, the Jacks in Office
have not allowed me yet to make a copy. Sono tanto gelosi, most likely
afraid I should publish it and prevent some friends of their own
reaping all the profit they hope from that speculation.
I was the person who first mentioned to Sig. Bezzi, a Piedmontese and
friend of Carlo Eastlake’s, the existence of the portrait under the
whitewash of three centuries. We were joined by an American, and we
three undertook at our expense to employ a restorer to uncover the
walls of the old chapel in the palace of the Podestà in search of
the portrait--mentioned by F. Villani, Filelfo, L. Aretino, Vasari,
Cinelli, etc. Nothing but the constancy and talent of Sig. Bezzi could
have overcome the numberless obstacles and refusals we met with. He
wrote and spoke with the persuasions of an advocate, and persevered
with the obstinacy and activity of an Englishman (which I believe he
now is). He alone was the cause of success. We should have had no
chance without him. At last, after uncovering enough of three walls to
ascertain it was not there, the Government took the task into their
own hands, on our terms, with the same restorer, and in the fifth wall
they have succeeded. The number of walls is six, for the chapel has
been divided in two--(magazines of wine, oil, bread, etc., for the
prisoners).
The precise date of the painting is not known. The poet looks about
28--very handsome--un Apollo colle fattezze di Dante. The expression
and character are worthy of the subject, and much beyond what I
expected from Giotto. Raphael might own it with honour. Add to which
it is not the mask of a corpse of 56--a ruin--but a fine, noble image
of the Hero of Campaldino, the Lover of Beatrice. The costume very
interesting--no beard or even a lock of hair.
A white cap, over which a white capuccio, lined with dark red showing
the edge turned back. A parchment book under his arm--perhaps the Vita
Nuova.
It is in a group of many others--one seems Charles II. of Naples.
Brunetto Latini and Corso Donati are mentioned by the old authors.
I send herewith a pamphlet by Prof. Nannucci--very curious and very
interesting respecting Dante--and a dose for the Crusca.
I wrote to you by Mr Craufurd, who took charge of the medal, and sent
two pamphlets by him, one for Mr Taylor--and two letters of thanks,
one to him and one to Mr Lyell; but I fear by what you say in your
last letter you have never received them. Mr C[raufurd] is a friend
of Eastlake’s, who can perhaps get them for you. I liked Mr Taylor’s
book[91] very much indeed, and am very grateful to you and him.
Yours most sincerely,
SEYMOUR KIRKUP.
B.
FLORENCE, _14th September 1841_.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
By the time you receive this, I hope that the portrait of Dante, for
you, will be in London.
The gentleman who has taken charge of it was in such haste to leave
the country (from the consequences of a fatal duel) that I had not an
opportunity for writing.
You will receive, in fact, three portraits. They are as follows:--
No. 1. A drawing in chalk, on light-brown paper, of the face as large
as the original. I had intended to write a memorandum on it, but in my
hurry it was forgotten. Perhaps you would have the kindness to add it,
if you think it worth while--viz.
“Drawn by S. K., and traced with talc, on the original fresco by
Giotto; discovered in the Chapel of the Palazzo del Podestà, Florence,
on the 21st July 1840, before it was retouched.”
No. 2. A small sketch in water-colours, giving the colours of the
dress, and the heads supposed to be of Corso Donati and Brunetto Latini.
No. 3. A Lithography by the painter and restorer Marini, who uncovered
the painting. This is made on a tracing by himself.
I thought it useful to send you these in order to give you a better
idea of this very interesting discovery--Dante, under 30 years of
age. With respect to No. 1, it is fixed with glue-water, and will
not rub out with common usage. The only thing it is liable to is the
cracking or bending of the paper, which sometimes in a face alters the
expression.
Since I drew it, I have had the mortification to see the original
retouched, and its beauty destroyed. You will perceive that the eye is
wanting. A deep hole in the wall was found exactly on that spot, as if
done on purpose. It was necessary to fill it that it might not extend
further: not content, they ordered Sig. Marini to paint the eye on
it, and he has daubed over the face in many parts, to the ruin of its
expression and character. It is now 15 years older, a mean, pinched
expression, and an effeminate character, compared to what it was. It
is not quite so bad as the lithography I send you, but not far from
it. When I saw what was done, I asked a young man, his assistant, if
it was done with colours in tempera, and he assured me, with a boast,
that it was in bon fresco. If so, Dante is gone for good. But I have
still hopes that he spoke only of the eye, and many of my friends
think it can only be accomplished on the old and hard painting by some
distemper-colour of glue, size, or egg; and, if so, a damp cloth fixed
on it for half-an-hour will bring it all away without injuring the
original fresco. I mean to take my time, and perhaps some day I may
restore Dante to himself a second time. I had the principal part in the
late discovery.
The lithography I send you is exceedingly unlike and incorrect,
although a tracing. In shading and finishing he has totally lost
and changed the outline, if he ever had it. It is vulgar, old, and
effeminate--the contrary in every respect to the original. The
Florentines of to-day cannot draw, nor even trace. Think of what such a
hand would do, if allowed to paint over it! and that has been the case.
It is a misfortune when the direction of the fine arts is in the hands
of an ignorant man, chosen only for his _Nobility_! Our Direttore with
his cleaners has been the ruin of paintings in the Galleries, since I
have been here, to the value of £60,000 or £80,000 sterling--and the
money is the least part of the loss. When I mentioned to you that my
drawing was a secret, I only meant that, if known here that I obtained
access to make a tracing by bribery, it would compromise those who had
assisted me. You are welcome to show it to whom you please, and _do
whatever you wish with it_. But I recommend you not to give it away,
for it is the _only_ copy that has been made to my knowledge before the
fresco was retouched, except the miserable lithography which I send;
and, if so bad a copy was produced by the help of tracing, and from
the original in its pure state, nothing very good is to be expected in
future. The eye in the said lithography was, of course, added by the
copier. You will perceive by my drawing that the outline (the eyelash)
remained, which was fortunate, as it gives the exact situation of the
feature.
We are in daily expectation of the arrival of The Book of Mystery.[92]
I am doubly anxious, from the distinguished honour you have conferred
on me. The Marquis and the Professor are full of gratitude to you, but
the Frenchman (_entre nous_) seemed to confer a favour rather than
receive one. And so great a one! _Gente francesca!_
The scientific meeting of Florence commences to-morrow, and ends on
the 8th Oct. It opens with a grand Mass of Spontini, in the Church
of S. Croce. Galileo’s shrine will be the favourite of the four
great Tuscans--besides whom, there is a host of secondary stars: F.
Barberini, C. Marsuppini, Leonardo Aretino, Lami, Mascagni, Alfieri,
Rinuccini, Alberti, etc., etc., etc.
Do you know the Improvisatore Regaldi? and his _Carme a
Firenze_--written about three years ago. There are some lines on the
subject of S. Croce.
God bless you, my dear friend, and allow me once more to thank you for
all your kindness, and to subscribe myself
Most sincerely yours,
SEYMOUR KIRKUP.
Best remembrances to Sig. Carlo (Eastlake, his name in Rome).
* * * * *
The name of the bearer of the portrait is Plowden. He is a banker of
Florence, and may be heard of at Messrs Harris & Farquhar, Bankers, of
London. He will send it you, I hope, or leave it himself.
C.
FLORENCE, _5th February 1843_.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
Let me add my thanks to the rest of the world for the mental enjoyment
afforded by your _Beatrice_. My share is the greater for the handsome
and honourable mention you make of me. I am proud of your approbation
and good opinion, and am doubly grateful for the rank in your esteem
which you have so generously bestowed on me. The book has met with
unusual success here. It has converted many. Whether the name has
attracted the public, or the compactness has excited the idle, or the
cheapness the economic, or all together, I know not, but it has been
much read and admired. Italians and Tramontani are all full of it. I
think in general they are grateful for the light; although it destroys
a romantic illusion, which has been much cherished, especially on this
spot, but which they cannot now entertain, except at the expense of
adhering to an absurdity, or rather many absurdities. Some, however,
are too far committed, and have too much vanity to acknowledge
themselves wrong--the vulgar and the selfish in particular.
For my own part, I have found the Ragionamento in part a renewal and
condensation of what I had already learned from your former works,
divided and spread through them. In this first Ragionamento you have
not given the demonstration (I suppose it will follow in a succeeding
one) of Boccaccio’s fault respecting May-Day, which is so complete and
curious in the _Misteri Platonici_....
The most important of your decisions is confirmed and strengthened in
this volume: I mean your identification of Beatrice and Filosofia.
Your three reasons at the top of p. 20 are new and unanswerable. How
completely Dante blindfolds the superficial reader (which I was, till
you taught me to fathom him) by making one believe that the lady at
the window was _mundane philosophy_, and that Beatrice, or _Divine
Science_, reproaches Dante in Purgatory for having yielded to her
attractions for a short time....
I am so engrossed by your work that I am carried away and not
answering your very kind and most friendly letter. A thousand thanks
for it. I know how your time is filled, and have always wondered how
you can get through all. I fear even writing you, but you desired
me to send you all I think of _Beatrice_. My letter would be long
indeed if I touched on all its beauties: I should copy the book.
There are many additional discoveries in the weaving of this mystic
web which the book is rich in. You still surprise those whom you have
already convinced. You are certainly an extraordinary Unraveller--a
Disentangler--and I will say that, notwithstanding the dry task of
unpicking knots, tight-drawn on purpose to resist skill and force, you
have performed it with a skill and elegance that render it exciting
and delightful to follow.
You desire all my “opposizioni.” Lord help me! Can I find an error or
two of the press?...
I am longing for the next Ragionamento; I don’t know if others want
much more to convince them, but in general the first part seems to
have had that effect.
Mr Lyell judges me, as you do, too partially. All I have learned I owe
to you; and I confess to you that I have often found it difficult,
even with your powerful help, to remove the substantial screen which
Dante has built up _purposely_ to conceal and protect his secret. But,
when I think of you, who have, alone and single-handed, knocked over
so many formidable barriers, and shown us the gardens and roses, the
groves, the apples, the laurels, the olives, the flowers, the stags,
and all the magic machinery of secret romance, I am lost in thinking
how you found your way in such a labyrinth, and what immense and
curious courses of reading you must have gone through, turning all you
obtained to the accomplishing your will and determination to penetrate
an untrod region, without a track or vestige to guide you. I wish I
had the ability to write a description of your _Misteri_. Perhaps I
could be of use in lending a hand merely, as I have studied them much;
but _my_ tools are paint-brushes, and I am not practised in the art
of writing. My education has been too defective for me ever to have
ventured in print. A weak defender is more dangerous than a strong
opponent, and all I could hope would be perhaps to hit on some thought
that might have escaped others; but without some help from the third
heaven (which a good friend of mine knows of) I should not be able to
clothe it so as to render it decent.
I observe what you say on the subject of necessary reserve on certain
subjects. You are quite right. You cannot be too careful in your
situation and with your family. From your letter I see that your
opinions are nearer mine than I supposed. But, as I am living out of
the world and am perfectly free from it, I can safely be as explicit
as I please. I have no reserve, and, if ever _the_ cause require a
word beyond the customary and necessary limits, call upon me to say
it, or say anything for me against priestcraft and kingcraft. That is
my religion.
I don’t wonder at Mr Lyell’s exultation at your _Beatrice_. There are
some master-touches amongst the new proofs, both in matter and manner,
both close reasoning and light....
The three pomegranates in Giotto’s fresco are so uncertain in their
appearance, from injury and time, that I was doubtful about them, but
a word from you decides the question in my mind. They are chipped and
much obliterated; and, from their seeming a sort of double outline,
and no shade or colour but the yellow drapery on which they are
painted, I took them for an embroidery on the breast of the Barone.
Some remains of fingers and stalk, however, had led the Florentines
to consider them as melograni, and they were puzzling their brains to
find a meaning....
Your whole-length portrait of yourself is full of nature and
character, and therefore it must be very like: I thank you for it.
And here is mine:--a little thin old man, 54, formerly dark, now very
grey. Fond of fun, but not often tempted to indulge in it, and seldom
depressed. Living alone in an old tower with two dogs only--a servant
coming daily for a few hours. Disliking much to go into company, and
especially to dress in cold weather, being slovenly even in my younger
days. I live very temperately and never take wine. I am very active,
more from lightness than strength, for I feel the effects of years and
illness. Just now I boast, for I have had extraordinary health this
autumn and winter. I paint a little, and read a good deal. I ought to
do more in both, with opportunities and perfect liberty, but I am slow
and stupid. My memory, too, is weaker than it was.
Lord Vernon has twice desired me to present his best compliments and
remembrances to you. He hopes you have received his book (through
Molini). There is an outline in it from my tracing of Dante’s head,
and, though it is not very correct, it is the best yet done....
When will your new edition of _Iddio e l’Uomo_ come out? I admired
it much in its former state. Forgive the length of this letter, and
remember me to Eastlake and Keightley.
Believe me, with sincere affection,
Your faithful friend,
SEYMOUR KIRKUP.
NO. 4.--LETTERS (OR EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS) FROM GIUSEPPE
MAZZINI--ELEVEN TO ROSSETTI, AND ONE TO ANOTHER CORRESPONDENT
The following are the only letters from Mazzini that remain among my
father’s papers--except some other three or four, too trifling to be
printed. The originals are naturally in Italian; the translation is
mine. Letters A. and B. relate to a certain Galassi and Vantini, whom
I do not remember, but the letters explain themselves well enough.
Mention is also made of a “little book” by my father, which was _Rome
towards the Middle of the Nineteenth Century_. Letters C, D, and E,
refer to a school which was got up in London, by some leading resident
Italians interested in the lot of their fellow-countrymen, for the
instruction of the poorer and hitherto much neglected members of
the colony--organ-grinders, plaster-cast vendors, models, waiters,
journeymen, etc. The ice-cream purveyor did not exist at that remote
date. This school, held in the Hatton Garden quarter, went on for
some few years, dignified by the countenance of Mazzini, and greatly
indebted to the practical work of (among others) Filippo Pistrucci,
who was a painter, teacher, writer, and improvisatore, brother of
the celebrated medallist. Rossetti of course concurred, but without
taking any very active part. Letters F, G, and H, refer mainly to a
MS. which my father wished to send to Paris--being, I take it, the
selection of his poems, many of them youthful, which were published
at Lausanne, under the title _Versi_. There is also some mention of
the Conte Giuseppe Ricciardi, named on p. 91 of the present book.
He belonged to the Mazzinian sect, but sometimes kicked against the
traces, and one can see in the correspondence that the great chief
found him on occasion a little exacting and tenacious. Letter I has
reference to a _fête_ which Signor Giovanni Antonio Delavo, who had
erected a villa on the site of the Battle of Marengo, got up on the
anniversary of the conflict. He had induced my father to write a poem
for that commemoration; and Mazzini, it seems, was invited to obtain
the insertion, in some English newspaper, of the poem, or of some
other writing connected with the occurrence. In this letter, and in
the following one (J), the observations about political events deserve
notice. The final letter (K) seems to belong to a late date in 1848,
and to imply that various Italians, including Mazzini himself, had
addressed the Swiss Diet in consequence of some complications arising
out of the Italian military reverses, in conflict with the Austrians,
towards the close of that memorable year of unmeasured hopes and cruel
disappointments.
A few notes of my own on minor points are appended to the
correspondence.
Besides the eleven letters to my father, I give one letter, of far
larger purport, which is quite unconnected with my family. It was
lately purchased by a daughter of mine, simply as an autograph. On the
purport of this document I need not enlarge, as it speaks for itself.
It stands numbered at the close “15” in Mazzini’s handwriting, and
would seem therefore to be one missive in a sustained correspondence.
The recipient (or some one) has written upon it in Italian, “Letter
from Giuseppe Mazzini”; moreover, the peculiar handwriting is quite
unmistakable. It bears no date, and, for reasons readily surmisable, no
postmark. In the course of the letter the addressee is spoken of as “My
Corso”: I presume, therefore, that his surname may have been Corso, but
this _might_ also be a Christian name, or might merely mean “Corsican.”
A name is written by Mazzini on the back of the letter; it has been
partly inked over, and looks to me more like “Mr Clare” than anything
else.
The letter shows that the addressee had some relations with Vincenzo
Gioberti, the celebrated Churchman and Minister of State, whose leading
work, _Il Primato d’Italia_, was published in 1845. Perhaps 1846 or
thereabouts may be the date of the letter. It mentions Tommaseo, a
multifarious man of letters, whom English people may remember as having
written the inscription on Casa Guidi, Florence, for Mrs Browning;
Buonarroti, a member of the house of the great Michelangelo; and
Bozzelli, the Liberal politician in Naples, who came to precarious
power in 1848. My father has mentioned him on p. 98. Libri appears to
be the Librarian of that name, settled in Paris, who succumbed under
a charge of serious frauds. The names of Malmusi and Bianco are not
recognized by me.
A.
4 YORK BUILDINGS, KING’S ROAD, CHELSEA.
_28th March 1841._
MY DEAR SIGNORE ROSSETTI,
You warmly recommended to Vantini one of our brother exiles, Galassi.
You recommended him for some employment, and that is well. But to
discover an employment is a lengthy affair, and Galassi has not a
halfpenny in the world, and I, for the last month and a half, have
been assisting him so far as my means allow--or indeed _don’t_ allow.
However, an expedient has offered, equally acceptable to Galassi and
to us--that of sending him to Spain. What between the friends that he
has there, and others whom we could obtain for him, and his knowledge
of the language, and other points, he would not find it difficult
to procure occupation; here, not understanding, nor perhaps making
himself understood, he would not succeed in a hundred years. Also a
ship has been found which would convey him to Bilbao or Santander for
a sum of £5; so that, with some few other pounds to get along with
at the first start, Galassi might have a chance of better fortune.
Now the ship will leave on the 30th of this month, and I can and will
do my share--not the whole. Therefore I appeal to you and to other
good Italians. And from you, as being better than many others, I
wish for two things instead of one; I would like that, if you _can_,
you would inscribe your name for some shillings on the accompanying
subscription-list--and that, if you _will_, you would write off to
Vantini, informing him that your client is preparing to depart, and
does not need to be assisted save this one time, and you would send on
the list to him. Vantini is indeed one of the best-hearted of them,
and this I know by experience. I would myself write to him, but have
recommended so many to him that I dare no more. Besides, it seems to
me better, since _you_ made the beginning, that you should bring this
good work to a close. None the less, I shall be grateful to you, as if
you undertook it now, and solely for my sake.
Meanwhile I am greatly obliged to you for the little book you sent me;
good and useful. We perhaps do not wholly agree as to the remedies to
be applied to our Italy; but certainly we do agree as to her wounds,
and you do a beneficial work in laying bare unremittingly one of the
most pernicious. For the rest, I trust in God that one day we shall
understand each other, and that you will be unwilling to hold aloof
from our National Association, now re-organized in all quarters, and
on the way to power.
Believe meantime in the affectionate esteem of your
GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.
B.
4 YORK BUILDINGS, KING’S ROAD, CHELSEA.
? 1841.
MY DEAR SIGNORE ROSSETTI,
I have managed with Vantini through a different method; anyhow, I
thank you for the intention, and for what you did for my client.
If you will send an order to Rolandi to deliver, to some one on my
behalf, a certain number of copies of your booklet, I will send them,
four days hence, by an opportunity to Spain. At present I have no
opportunity as to Switzerland, but I have correspondents there; and,
were the chance to present itself to you sooner than to me, address
to Signor Fanciola, Postmaster at Locarno (Ticino) for “Signor Pietro
Ol----”; and the copies will be distributed in accordance with your
intentions.
I have promised to send to a friend in New York the copy of the Papal
Excommunication of Carbonarism--launched, I think, in 1820. Do you
happen to know where I could find it?
I am aware of your circumstances;[93] but what is requested of you
would be no more than the influence of your name among the Italians
who know you. The object is to have you as our brother in our
Association, so that to any inquirer one could say--“All those who
truly love the cause of their country have comprehended that unity
of country cannot be founded without unity of association.” There
would be a slight monthly contribution fixed by yourself; there
would be (and this is the most serious condition, but, as you will
see, inevitable) the certainty that, in writing about our country,
you would leave off recommending monarchic constitutionalism, and
repeat with us: “May God and the People be the salvation of Italy!”
And these, for us who are abroad, are about the only conditions of
the Association. For the rest, I believe that a copy of our _General
Instruction_, given to you by Pistrucci, has remained in your hands.
The whole of our thought is there expressed; and, if one day you feel
able to say “I accept it and make it mine,” you will be received by us
with joy and sincere brotherliness.
Meanwhile good-bye, and believe me
Yours,
GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.
If you like, you should place at my disposal a certain number of
copies for Marseilles, and for Italy in that direction; I will provide
for their reaching.
C.
LONDON.
? _November 1844._
MY DEAR SIGNOR ROSSETTI,
I transcribe verbatim a letter that I have received.
“To Signori Rossetti, Pepoli,[94] and Mazzini. A Special Committee
chosen by the Italian Working-men begs you to come together on
Sunday 4th December 1844, at the hour and place most convenient to
yourselves, to receive a communication of high importance; and, in the
confidence that you will grant us this favour, we thank you meanwhile.
The members of the aforesaid Committee--Odoardo Villani, G. B. Soldi,
A. Berni, Giuseppe Gandolfini.”
I don’t know anything about the object of the meeting. I know the four
signatories, and they are good worthy Italians. In the impossibility,
for lack of time, of corresponding as to hour and place, I take
the liberty of fixing for the meeting my house, between 1 and 2
P.M. I am notifying to Pepoli and to them. Try and come if
you can; or, if perchance you cannot, write so as to relieve me of
responsibility.
Believe me always
Yours,
GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.
D.
4 YORK BUILDINGS, CHELSEA.
? _May 1845._
MY DEAR SIGNOR ROSSETTI,
We have decided to have on an early day in June a concert for the
benefit of the school; Pistrucci, I suppose, will give you all the
particulars of the project, or I will give them myself. You will then
see how far and in what way you may be able to aid towards a good
result. But meanwhile I have to beg you urgently for one thing. I have
a letter of introduction to Miss Kemble,[95] and I want to request
her to sing: singing for a school is quite a different thing from
singing in a theatre. I know that she at one time asked Giannone[96]
for a letter to you, and that you saw her. I don’t know on what terms
you have remained with her, but, knowing _you_, I presume good terms.
Could you add a letter to the one which I hold? or could you join me
in a visit? or, if nothing else, write to her on your own part?--and,
in this last case, on Monday or Tuesday. Thus assailed at one moment
from two sides, she would perhaps surrender.
Whatever you decide, please oblige me with a couple of words in reply,
and with the lady’s present address,[97] if you can give this.
Wish me well, and believe me
Your very affectionate
GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.
E.
108 HIGH HOLBORN.
_31st October 1845._
MY DEAR SIGNOR ROSSETTI,
Pistrucci told me that he would undertake to beg you to allow your
voice to be heard, in one way or other, at the Anniversary of our
School, 10th November.[98] Still, I will join to his my poor request.
The fact of the School is an Italian fact; and it ought, even with a
view to the English, to have the moral support of all Italians who,
like yourself, do honour to the name of our common country.
Confiding in your willingness to hearken to our request, believe, dear
Signor Rossetti, in the full friendly esteem of
Yours,
GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.
F.
19 CROPLEY STREET, NEW NORTH ROAD.
[? _January 1847_].
VERY DEAR SIGNOR ROSSETTI,
An opportunity has arisen. Will you give the MS. to the bearer? He
will be leaving to-morrow, or at latest on Tuesday.
I thank you for your good wishes for the year now commenced; but I
have no hope of joy, save one alone--that of bearing witness in death,
as I have endeavoured to do in life, to my Italian faith. Pray that
this may occur within this year, and believe me always
Your much attached
GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.
G.
19 CROPLEY STREET, NEW NORTH ROAD.
[? _January 1847_].
MY DEAR SIGNOR ROSSETTI,
The Manuscript has gone off--not anything else. Ricciardi, Janer,
Pistrucci, will have patience, and await other opportunities which I
shall have towards the end of the month. We cannot, for exhortations
and sonnets, be guilty of an indiscretion towards English travellers,
who consider they have stretched a point if they accept letters,
and are quite capable of throwing in your face a “Why not employ a
bookseller?”--which I should not like. However, I undertake, for
love of you, to get all the things off, but distributing them among
various travellers. A slight delay will not spoil matters; nor will
the exhortations to return to Paris accelerate to any great extent the
progress of French civilization.
I was unable to charge my traveller--an Englishman, young, and
an officer--with the eight shillings, for he would probably have
forgotten them. But I have written that you had given them to me, to
be paid to Ricciardi--and probably they will be paid one of these days.
Believe me, with all esteem,
Your much attached
GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.
H.
17 CROPLEY STREET, NEW NORTH ROAD.
_8th February_ [1847].
MY DEAR SIGNOR ROSSETTI,
To your MS. has happened what often happens to our Italian affairs:
in trying to do good, one does harm. If we had waited patiently for
that Italian traveller of mine of the 24th January, the MS. would at
this date be in Paris. But, urged on by my own wishes, and also by the
strong pressure, I seized the opportunity of an Englishman, Captain
Boulton, and consigned the volume to him. He, as he said, was to leave
on the following day. And, knowing nothing to the contrary, I supposed
him to have departed, in fact; until, five or six days ago, becoming
suspicious from the silence of my correspondents, and making active
quest for the officer, I found that owing to some family incident or
other he had deferred his departure, and had indeed gone off to the
country--whence he writes that he will be leaving in seven days!!
You should, therefore, be under no alarm for the MS. Like yourself, I
regret the delay, but it is not my fault. If, earlier than the seven
days, I get an opportunity, I will see that the MS. goes off before
the officer; if not, not.
I felt anxious to reply to you about the MS., as the matter of most
importance. As to Ricciardi’s eight copies, please inform Ricciardi
that one can’t tell a tourist, “Take with you a boxful of things”;
that it is a miracle if I found some one to convey the eight; that,
sooner or later, I shall find some one to convey the others; and that
moreover I would not have undertaken, except for wishing to do a
service to you whom I greatly esteem, to send off either the eight or
the sixteen. Neither would I set going from Paris to London, and then
from London to Paris, copies of my own performances, but would order
them to be burned or given away.
And believe me ever
Your much attached and affectionate
GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.
I.
19 CROPLEY STREET, NEW NORTH ROAD.
? _ May 1847._
DEAR SIGNOR ROSSETTI,
I cannot succeed in the endeavour. Among the leading newspapers, I
had no hope save in the _Morning Chronicle_, and this one declines.
The quantity of matter, electoral movements, literary articles
already promised, etc., form the pretext. The true reason, I think,
is that the apotheosis of Napoleon has no grateful sound to English
reminiscences. Besides, a short paragraph upon the celebration of the
6th[99] had already received insertion in several journals when your
letter arrived, and they are not fond of repetitions.
For myself, I, as you know, do not believe in King nor in Pope: I
believe in God and in ourselves. They may do what they choose, and
try to compromise Charles Albert[100] in the face of Austria by every
means: the rabbit will not be changed into a lion. I say rabbit, and
might say fox. To celebrate Marengo, a battle won by an Italian but in
the name and under the banner of the French nation, while we have the
Austrians our masters two paces off, savours to me of bragging rather
than of patriotism. I see these demonstrations with pleasure, because
they furnish an occasion for impressing on the people, who know not,
the name of Italy, and that of her oppressors; but, as an individual,
I feel inclined to smile with a trifle of bitterness. In Piedmont the
rabbit is now in the vein of reaction; and not only the suppression
of the subscription,[101] but that of the Family-readings conceded to
the Jesuits, and other recent acts, speak clearly enough. However, we
shall see.
I keep the letter for another two days, for a final endeavour;
afterwards, I shall return it to you. Meanwhile believe me always
Your much attached and affectionate
GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.
J.
[The reference to Ricciardi’s book follows on more or less from what
appears in two previous letters. The book may possibly have been a
predictive _History of Italy from 1850 to 1900_, which was published in
1842. This letter, written in the great year of European revolutions,
1848, belongs, I suppose, to a very early date in that year; perhaps
prior to the insurrection in Paris, which began on 23rd February. There
had been some disturbances in Milan on 3rd January, and a rising in
Messina from 6th January. On 22nd February martial law was proclaimed
in Lombardy by the Austrians.]
19 CROPLEY STREET, NEW NORTH ROAD.
? _February 1848._
MY DEAR SIGNOR ROSSETTI,
I send you by Parcels Delivery Company ten copies of Ricciardi’s book,
admiring our friend’s tenacity of memory, especially in this time
of events. These are the only copies that I find in my possession.
If I _had_ a larger number, the Italian friends who during the long
interval have been frequenting my house must have appropriated them
with no great ceremony, much as they appropriate my own books. None
the less, if ever Ricciardi were to complain, I declare myself ready
to pay the expense of the copies deficient. I ought to have been on
the watch, but that is not my habit.
The affairs of Italy are going and will go on their right course--that
is, to the expulsion of the Austrians from the Lombardo-Venetian
territory. The Sicilian insurrection has done more for the Italian
cause, in a few days of popular action, than two years of petitioning.
Believe me always
Your much attached
GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.
K.
19 CROPLEY STREET, NEW NORTH ROAD.
? _November 1848._
MY DEAR SIGNOR ROSSETTI,
Here is the Address which we sent to the Swiss Diet. I will add that
a discussion on military capitulations was in consequence started in
the Diet by the Ticino and the Bas-Valais; a discussion which, as
befalls everything important in that Central (not Government but)
mis-Government, was not settled, but held over (as they say) _ad
referendum_.
Make any use of me that I can manage, and believe me always
Your much attached
GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.
L.
TO “CORSO”
BROTHER,
I have received yours of the 8th. That I should write to you at much
length on the subject of your letter is not possible. You, however,
will certainly not suppose that I evade the discussion, nor that I
do not set a right value on your convictions, or do not care about
them. No indeed; and you are mistaken in fancying that your frankness
of speech could ever offend me. If you but knew how the religion
of truth is the religion for me! and how much any real conviction
inspires me with respect, if not assent! But this is not a question
to be disposed of in a few letters; nor have I time, beset as I am by
a thousand distractions through my dream of Italian initiative, to
enter on a discussion. And, if I ever have time, I shall compose, I
confess to you, a whole volume--but I shall never publish it, unless
a Republican revolution should have broken out. For the present, I
understand this latest reaction in favour of Christianity, and I see
it to be necessary, and acknowledge it as useful. A true knowledge of
Christianity--its nature, its mission--will follow from this study.
Just as, in my view, _reform_ must naturally precede the securing
of independence, liberty, and equality, in political dogma, so do I
believe that the political synthesis, or at any rate a glimpse of this
synthesis, must, in the new epoch, precede in renovated Europe the
manifestation of the religious synthesis of the epoch. Rights were of
yore individual; and it was natural that first the _individual_ should
be emancipated, that the _instrument_ should be formed to acquire
an application of those rights in the political department. At the
present time the reverse is the case. The question is that of the
_social_ synthesis. The _instrument_ is no longer the _individual_,
but the people. Therefore the people, which is to secure the religious
formula, requires to be _constituted_: therefore a political
revolution before the religious one.
Only, you know what I have always said: like advanced scouts, secret
sentinels of human nature, _intelligences_ must begin to proclaim that
they descry the _new lands_ and the new law. And therefore I should
have supposed you to be among them; and I still believe that you will
be among them later on. Meanwhile, as you think that my efforts (and
be it observed that I am doing nothing) are to subserve the triumph
of Christianity, so do I think that yours are to subserve the triumph
of the new synthesis, the _social_ synthesis, philosophy merged into
religion: because--I do not deny it--my “harmonized dualism” is
precisely this harmonizing of philosophy with religion--two things
which hitherto have been at odds, and which will end by coalescing.
Yours is, without your perceiving it, an eclecticism and no more. Your
_quid tertium_, neither _catholic_ nor _primitive_ (two distinctions
as to which I should have much to say), is an Utopia, or rather a
chimera. You don’t perceive that that which you call _primitive_ is at
bottom nothing except Christianity in the soul, not any social form;
that the second epoch--_i.e._ Catholicism--is rightly the application
of Christianity to society; and that the Reformation--a cynical
movement, whatever you may say about it--came, in fact, to say of
Christianity: “You are not susceptible of any social application, of
any national unity, because you are an individualistic formula and no
more: stay you in your proper sphere.”
You and I, I perceive, regard the Reformation, and all things, from
different points of view.
And now see what is the outcome of the idea, “Christianity is an
_eternal_ religion, an unique religious synthesis.” And what of
mankind prior to Christianity? Oh in what sense do you understand God,
if you admit that He gave the unique eternal synthesis some thousands
of years after the race had been created? And the unity of the mind
of God? A progressive law at the beginning, and an eternal synthesis
later on? But no more of this; you go too far. Believing as I do, with
yourself, in continuous progression, there ought to be between us
only a question of time, but never a denial of a new synthesis when
the time comes. _Christianity asserts its perfection and eternity as
a fundamental principle: therefore you cannot, without destroying it,
say that it is not the whole of truth._ But once again, no more of
this. Christianity had to profess itself perfect and eternal, and I
even admit that. But when did Christianity ever affect to be a social
religion? _That_ is the question. Christianity is the formula of the
individual, and as such is eternal and perfect to my thinking--for
that formula is what no one can nullify. It means liberty and
equality; and who can ever henceforth exclude those two bases of
progress from the progress of the future? Christianity therefore will
endure. Only, behind that formula one seeks for another--the social.
Where is the contradiction?
Tell me, my Corso, with your hand on your heart. To the arguments
which I scatter in my letters, hurried, unconnected, and almost
sportive, the true fruit of profound convictions, and which you
(permit me to say) shirk a little in your replies, have you anything
to oppose? Do not some of the things which I say, if you think them
over seriously, cast some doubts on your mind?
As to what you cite to me, regarding miracles, and the resurrection
of Christ, etc., I will not discuss to-day; but I confess to you, it
seems to me strange that you should regard those as being irrevocably
proved in history.
I say it seriously, some one will come to furbish up my ideas, without
knowing that I advocated them. I am more than likely to die without
doing this, because I am conscious of my mission, and I know the
duration of it--and I know that it is not I who will wage the war.
Truth means to run her course, and she will do it; but I shall not
lay the foundation-stone of the edifice--I have no future. I have
discerned, but it is not given to me to do more; therefore I still
devote these my days to a work very inferior to that which my longings
would have sought for--the actual production of the instrument. I am
neither more nor less than a political revolutionist, and to this I
resign myself. Would that I may at least be that, and wrench this
Italy that I love out of the mire in which she lies, set her freed
face to face with her destinies, and say to her, “Now make them yours.”
As you see, I am writing to Gioberti. Writing thus to all and sundry
begins to weigh upon me. I have moments of _spleen_, of individualism
which rebels; and at those moments I seem to myself to be playing
the prostitute, and making Italian liberty play the like part. For
if you but knew how many letters, and these to intellects so-called,
and all useless! But these are moments of irritation, arising out of
what I have myself been suffering these three years, and this is more
than you suppose, and you know it not, and never will know it. Then
I return to myself; and, where I can see any little advantage, any
symptom of duty, I submit and write.
Hand also the enclosed lines to Tommaseo, who, like others, does not
understand me, and does not understand the situation in which we are.
Have you seen Libri? You will tell me that I am pertinacious; this is
true. But all those who desert me, without any fault of mine against
them, and without my being even able to guess the reason, cause me
real pain.
If you know Malmusi, or can get at any one who knows him, don’t forget
to tell him that for the love of God he should reassure me concerning
the arrival of certain letters of mine: his silence troubles me.
Of politics I say nothing, as I do not mean to speak about them until
the first half of the month of October; then I shall have data from
which to speak. Meanwhile I repeat to you what I told you.
Did you ever see Buonarroti? Do you know where Bianco is? Of him
I know nothing of late, and I am anxious to write to him. Do they
ever write to you from Turin? What Italians are you acquainted with?
Bozzelli?
Wish well to your
STROZZI.
Put an envelope on the letter to Gioberti. Write to me what reception
he gives it. Pray excuse.[102]
NO. 5.--SIX POEMS BY GABRIELE ROSSETTI
[I give here six specimens of my father’s powers as a poet. Setting
aside _San Paolo in Malta_, which is only an improvise, it may be said
that in all these instances the verses rank among his choice things;
though many others could be quoted not inferior. The dates which I give
may be regarded as correct, unless as to the final sonnet, regarding
which I am uncertain.
The lyric, _Aurora del 21 Luglio del 1820_, was, as I have before
said, extremely celebrated in its time; and the _Addio alla Patria_
has always been an admired piece. The _San Paolo in Malta_ is
referred to at p. 61, and testifies to Rossetti’s uncommon power
as an Improvisatore; being as it is in _terza rima_, each rhyme is
triplicated, and thus the improvising effort was all the more arduous.
I leave these poems to the perusal of such readers as are acquainted
with Italian. To try to translate them would be little else than to
scheme deliberately to spoil them.]
A.
AD AMORE
Alato bambino,
Tiranno de’ cuori,
Ch’io segua il cammino
Che innanzi m’infiori?
Unendomi teco
Ch’io veggio sì cieco,
Oh quanto sarei
Più cieco di te!
Pur troppo gemei,
Fanciullo inumano!
Ma i lacci funesti
Che al piè mi cingesti
Del Tempo la mano
Mi sciolse dal piè.
A credulo cuore
Tu scaltro dispensi
Contento ed ardore
Che inebbriano i sensi:
Ma in mezzo al contento
Prepari il tormento;
L’ardor ti precede,
Ti segue il languor.
Nè l’alma si avvede
Del passo imprudente
Che quando a fuggire
Le manca l’ardire,
Che quando si sente
Già vinta dal cuor.
Quel dì che sul mondo
Vagisti bambino,
Un cenno iracondo
Del sordo Destino
Di face ferale
La destra immortale
Di penne funeste
Il dorso ti armò.
Le penne son queste,
O nume fallace,
Che a Pari infedele
Gonfiaron le vele,
E questa è la face
Che Troia bruciò.
Tu godi, o tiranno,
Di sparger la terra
Di gioia, d’affanno,
Di pace, di guerra;
Ma finta è la pace,
La guerra è verace,
L’affanno rimane,
La gioia sen va.
Insidie sì strane
Ci ordisci, ci tendi,
Che a render prigione
L’augusta Ragione,
Tuoi complici rendi
Ingegno e Beltà.
Chi crede a’ tuoi detti
Ne attenda la fine;
Le rose prometti
Per dargli le spine:
Ben sento che giova
Saperlo per prova;
Ma troppo al mio cuore
Tal prova costò.
La via del dolore
Io teco calcava;
Ma in mezzo del corso
Intesi il Rimorso
Che _ferma_, gridava,
Ma tardi gridò.
Quel giorno che il velo
Mi cadde dal ciglio,
Rimasi di gelo
Scorgendo il periglio:
Sul velo squarciato,
Sul laccio spezzato,
Il canto innalzai
Di mia libertà.
Ah libero omai
Dal giogo abborrito,
Sull’ara tua stessa
Crollata, depressa,
Innalzo pentito
L’altar d’Amistà.
1813.
B.
VERSI D’AMORE
Dal tuo leggiadro viso
Il mio destin dipende:
D’ugual desio mi accende
Il tuo desio.
Dal labbro tuo soltanto
Ha questo labbro il riso:
Ha dal tuo ciglio il pianto
Il ciglio mio.
1814.
C.
AURORA DEL 21 LUGLIO DEL 1820
Sei pur bella cogli astri sul crine
Che scintillan quai vivi zaffiri,
È pur dolce quel fiato che spiri,
Porporina foriera del dì.
Col sorriso del pago desio
Tu ci annunzii dal balzo vicino
Che d’Italia nell’almo giardino
Il servaggio per sempre finì.
Il rampollo d’Enrico e di Carlo,
Ei ch’ad ambo cotanto somiglia,
Oggi estese la propria famiglia,
E non servi ma figli bramò.
Volontario distese la mano
Sul volume de’ patti segnati;
E il volume de’ patti giurati
Della patria sull’ara posò.
Una selva di lance si scosse
All’invito del bellico squillo,
Ed all’ombra del sacro vessillo
Un sol voto discorde non fù.
E fratelli si strinser le mani,
Dauno, Irpino, Lucano, Sannita;
Non estinta ma solo sopita
Era in essi l’antica virtù.
Ma qual suono di trombe festive!
Chi s’avanza fra cento coorti?
Ecco il forte che riede tra i forti,[103]
Che la patria congiunse col re!
Oh qual pompa! Le armate falangi
Sembran fiumi che inondin le strade!
Ma su tante migliaia di spade
Una macchia di sangue non v’è.
Lieta scena! Chi plaude, chi piange,
Chi diffonde vïole e giacinti,
Vincitori confusi coi vinti
Avvicendano il bacio d’amor!
Dalla reggia passando al tugurio
Non più finta la gioia festeggia;
Dal tugurio tornando alla reggia
Quella gioia si rende maggior.
Genitrici de’ forti campioni
Convocati dal sacro stendardo,
Che cercate col pavido sguardo?
Non temete, chè tutti son quì.
Non ritornan da terra nemica,
Istrumenti di regio misfatto,
Ma dal campo del vostro riscatto,
Dove il ramo di pace fiorì.
O beata fra tante donzelle,
O beata la ninfa che vede
Fra que’ prodi l’amante che riede
Tutto sparso di nobil sudor!
Il segreto dell’alma pudica
Le si affaccia sul volto rosato,
Ed il premio finora negato
La bellezza prepara al valor.
Cittadini, posiamo sicuri
Sotto l’ombra de’ lauri mietuti,
Ma coi pugni sui brandi temuti
Stiamo in guardia del patrio terren.
Nella pace prepara la guerra
Chi da saggio previene lo stolto:
Ci sorrida la pace sul volto,
Ma ci frema la guerra nel sen.
Che guardate, gelosi stranieri?
Non uscite dai vostri burroni,
Chè la stirpe dei prischi leoni
Più nel sonno languente non è.
Adorate le vostre catene;
Chi v’invidia cotanto tesoro?
Ma lasciate tranquilli coloro
Che disdegnan sentirsele al piè.
Se verrete, le vostre consorti,
Imprecando ai vessilli funesti,
Si preparin le funebri vesti,
Chè speranza per esse non v’ha.
Sazierete la fame de’ corvi,
Mercenarie falangi di schiavi;
In chi pugna pe’ dritti degli avi
Divien cruda la stessa pietà.
Una spada di libera mano
È saetta di Giove tonante,
Ma nel pugno di servo tremante
Come canna vacilla l’acciar.
Fia trionfo la morte per noi,
Fia ruggito l’estremo sospiro;
Le migliaia di Persia fuggiro,
I trecento di Sparta restâr!
E restaron coi brandi ne’ pugni
Sopra mucchi di corpi svenati,
E que’ pugni, quantunque gelati,
Rassembravan disposti a ferir.
Quello sdegno passava nel figlio
Cui fù culla lo scudo del padre,
Ed al figlio diceva la madre,
“Quest’esempio tu devi seguir.”
O tutrice dei dritti dell’uomo,
Che sorridi sul giogo spezzato,
È pur giunto quel giorno beato
Che un monarca t’innalza l’altar!
Tu sul Tebro fumante di sangue
Passeggiavi qual nembo fremente,
Ma serena qual’alba ridente
Sul Sebeto t’assidi a regnar.
Una larva col santo tuo nome
Quì sen venne con alta promessa;
Noi, credendo che fossi tu stessa,
Adorammo la larva di te:
Ma, nel mentre fra gl’inni usurpati
Sfavillava di luce fallace,
Ella sparve qual sogno fugace,
Le catene lasciandoci al piè.
Alla fine tu stessa venisti
Non ombrata da minimo velo,
Ed un raggio disceso dal cielo
Sulla fronte ti veggio brillar.
Coronata di gigli perenni,
Alla terra servendo d’esempio,
Tu scegliesti la reggia per tempio,
Ove il trono ti serve d’altar.
1820.
D.
ADDIO ALLA PATRIA
Nella notte più serena
Era in ciel la luna piena:
Neve il dorso e fiamma il crin
Riflettea dal mar vicin
Il Vesèvo che grandeggia
Come reggia--di Vulcan:
D’arme grave--anglica nave
Trascorrea l’equoreo pian.
Quando il profugo cantore,
La cui colpa è il patrio amore,
Atteggiato di martir,
Schiuse il labbro ad un sospir
E qual flebile usignuolo,
Il suo duolo--a disfogar,
Dal naviglio--volse il ciglio
La sua terra a salutar.
O Partenope, egli dice,
O Partenope infelice,
Di tua gloria il chiaro dì
Quasi al nascere morì!
Ah dal cor t’indrizzo i carmi
Nel sottrarmi--a reo poter,
E nel bando--miserando
Sarai sempre il mio pensier!
Rè fellon che ci tradisti,
Tu rapisci e non racquisti:
Maledetto, o rè fellon,
Sii dall’austro all’aquilon!
Maledetto ogni malnato
Che ha tramato--insiem con te!
Maledetto--ogni soggetto
Che ti lambe il sozzo piè!
Ti sien contro in ogni loco
Cielo e terra, mare e foco,
Nè dien tregua a un infedel
Foco e mare, terra e ciel!
Sì, ti faccian sempre guerra
Cielo e terra--foco e mar!
Ti stia scritto--il tuo delitto
Sulla mensa e sull’altar!
Traditor, da quel momento
Che infrangesti il giuramento,
Cento stili, o traditor,
Tendon’ avidi al tuo cor...
Deh frenate il santo sdegno,
Non n’è degno--un cor brutal,
E saetta--di vendetta
Tenga il luogo del pugnal!
Che pel fulmine di Dio
De’ suoi falli ei paghi il fio,
Ma di Bruto il sacro stil
Onorar non dee quel vil!
No, non abbia il vil la gloria
Che la storia--dica un dì:
Il nefando--Ferdinando
Come Cesare perì!
Mesta Italia, io ti saluto:
Qual momento hai tu perduto!
Quel momento, o Dio, chi sà
Se mai più ritornerà?
Già sorgea ringiovanita
L’impigrita--tua virtù...
Come mai--tornar potrai
Al languor di servitù?
Deh perchè non farla, o Sorte,
O men bella, o almen più forte?
L’astringesti ad invocar
Lo straniero infido acciar,
Onde o vinta o vincitrice
L’infelice--ognor servì,
E impugnando--estraneo brando
Sè medesma ognor ferì.
Ah crudel, se a questa terra
Far volevi eterna guerra,
Perchè darle poi, crudel,
Questo suolo e questo ciel?
Quì le vergini di Giove
Tutte e nove--apriro il vol,
Quì sfavilla--la scintilla
Che Prometeo tolse al sol.
Surse quì la face aurata
Sull’Europa ottenebrata,
E l’Europa a quel fulgor
Si scotea dal suo torpor.
Cento doti, Italia bella,
Lieta stella--a te largì;
Ahi t’invola--quella sola
Che ti fea regina un dì!
Libertà, tu fuggi? Ed io...
Io ti seguo; Italia, addio!
Libertà, non mai da te,
Mai non fia ch’io torca il piè!
Oh se un dì farai ritorno,
In quel giorno--anch’io verrò;
Ma infelice--il cor mi dice
Che mai più non tornerò!
Sì dicea; ma l’igneo monte
Decrescea nell’orizzonte,
E la luna in mezzo al ciel
S’era ascosa in grigio vel.
Par che stia con veste oscura
La Natura--a dolorar,
Par lamento--il flebil vento,
Par singulto il rotto mar.
Addio, terra sventurata!...
Ma la terra era celata.
Ei nel duol che l’aggravò
Chinò ’l capo e singhiozzò.
Ahi l’amor della sua terra,
Ahi qual guerra--in sen gli fà!
Infelice!--il cor gli dice
Che mai più non tornerà!
_24 Giugno 1821._
E.
SAN PAOLO IN MALTA--_Canto Improvvisato_
Poichè l’onda varcai non mai tranquilla
Ove spiran talor venti insoavi,
Fra cui Cariddi freme e latra Scilla,
Scilla e Cariddi che le intere navi
Ingoian nelle viscere petrose,
E ne vomitan poi le rotte travi,
Oltre l’etnee voragini fumose,
A cui perpetuo april le balze infiora,
Solcai dell’afro mar le strade ondose.
In porpora augural sorgea l’aurora,
Quando un’isola apparve al punto istesso
A me che meditava in su la prora;
Isola che in offrir facile accesso
L’Africa con l’Europa in sè marita,
A due parti del mondo uscita e ingresso;
Isola che bilingue e tripartita
Il passeggier nel suo cammin navale
Con quattro porti a riposarsi invita.
Già vi scendea del mio desir sull’ale,
Quando dall’alto udii voce tonante:
“Scrivi quel che vedrai, scrivi, o mortale!”
Levai sorpreso il pallido sembiante,
E scender vidi nuvola d’argento
Che agli occhi mi vibrò balen fiammante:
E dopo un giro vorticoso e lento
Un cittadin del ciel mi dischiudea,
E tal che ancor lo veggio, ancor lo sento.
Gran parte delle sfere onde scendea
Avea nel volto, e lunga fluttuando
Sfioccata barba al petto suo pendea.
Un pallio sinuoso e venerando
Lo panneggiava, e avea tra fiero e pio
Un libro in una man, nell’altra un brando.
All’inspirato suo decor natio
Riconobbi il maestro delle genti,
Vaso d’elezïon, lingua di Dio,
Colui che or con ragioni, or con portenti,
Apostolo e filosofo, fu vago
Ne’ varj climi illuminar le menti.
E poichè offrì la venerata imago
Del Verbo Eterno in Efeso e Corinto,
Mostrò l’ignoto Dio nell’Areopago;
Ed in Damasco dalla grazia vinto,
Da nemico di Dio fattone messo,
Ancor vivente al terzo ciel fu spinto.
Nel ravvisarlo al vivido riflesso,
Di riverenza l’anima ripiena,
Mutolo al piè gli caddi e genuflesso.
L’accerchiata di rai fronte serena
Paolo abbassando allor: “Sorgi,” mi disse,
“O figliuol dell’armonica sirena,
Sorgi e respira. Io so quanto soffrisse
Di tempeste il tuo cor che un porto chiede,
E un porto il fausto ciel già ti prefisse.
Quell’isola gentil che là si vede
Curvar flavo e petroso il fianco aprico,
Cui basso il mar lambe amoroso il piede,
Al tuo vagar fia di ricetto amico.
Bella ospitalità pronta ai soccorsi
Colà si annida, ed io per prova il dico;
Chè poichè Saulo caddi e Paolo sorsi,
E la spada in gettar presi la penna,
Vangelizzando l’Orïente io corsi,
E quella Fè ch’anche gli stolti assenna,
Fuggendo la tirannide feroce,
Meco salì sulla velata antenna;
E ovunque alzando l’inspirata voce,
In faccia alla fremente Idolatria,
Rovesciò l’are e vi piantò la croce.
Or mentre trascorrea l’equorea via,
E ministra al vagante apostolato
Pellegrina la Fè meco venia,
Lo spirto delle tenebre sdegnato
Contro il mio pin che questo mar fendea
L’onde rimescolò col freddo fiato,
E dal nembo mugghiante in cui fremea
Stese il braccio nemico, e con furore
Negli scogli spezzò la prora achea.
Ma quel che impera ai venti alto Signore
Mi guidò fra quei semplici isolani
A dissipar le nebbie dell’errore.
E i varj ne fugai sogni profani,
Onde impresse vi avean larghe vestigia
Fenici, Greci, Punici, e Romani:
E la potenza eterea, equorea, e stigia,
Dei falsi dei, figli di reo consiglio,
Per me disparve da Melita e Ogigia.
Nè sol Giove, Nettun, Pluto, in esiglio
Mandai dall’are, ma Calipso istessa
Onde accolti quì furo Ulisse e il figlio.
E fin d’Ercole Tirio al suol depressa
Cadde l’imago, cara al volgo insano,
Che nei numismi ancor si vede impressa.
Quivi rettile reo mi morse invano,
Che dai sarmenti accesi in cui soffiava
Sbucò fischiando e m’addentò la mano;
E mentre a gonfio collo raddoppiava
Il morso in questa man, da me sospinto,
Spense nel foco la maligna bava.
Ciascun credea che di pallor dipinto,
Quasi iniquo omicida a Dio rubello,
Per quel velen cader dovessi estinto.
Ma sopra i giorni miei vegliava quello
Che salvi trasse i tre dalla fornace,
E dai leoni il giovin Danïello.
Ei volle questo suolo asil di pace,
Onde fe’ che per me restasse illeso
Dal tosco d’ogni rettile mordace.
Del portento insperato ognun sorpreso
Mi cadde al piè con supplicanti rai,
Come s’io fossi un dio dal ciel disceso.
E bene al guardo altrui tal mi mostrai,
Chè dalle genti estenuate e grame
Cento pallidi morbi allor fugai.
Di Publio udii le filïali brame,
Sì che a suo padre, in preda a morbo ingordo,
Dell’egra vita rannodai lo stame.
Tolsi a Morte l’acciar di sangue lordo,
Sordi e muti guarii, con tal portento
Che il muto lo narrò, l’intese il sordo.
Corser d’allor ben cento lustri e cento
E sempre questi resi almi confini
Asili dell’industria e del contento.
E vigilando ognor sui lor destini
Nel successivo imperversar degli anni
Scacciai Goti, Normanni, e Saracini.
Farne una rocca contro agli Ottomanni
Disegnai poscia, ne parlai nel cielo,
E mi fe’ plauso il precursor Giovanni.
Ei che a vittoria del divin vangelo
Proteggeva un equestre ordin d’onore
Che pria regnò fra il Libano e il Carmelo,
Per rinnovarne il pristino splendore
Meco discese per le vie del tuono
Del Quinto Carlo a favellarne al core.
E Carlo allor dal riverito trono
Per compenso di Rodi (ahi Rodi tristo!)
Ai campioni di Dio ne fece un dono.
Ed essi intenti a glorïoso acquisto
Spinser nautiche flotte all’uopo accolte,
Il gran sepolcro a liberar di Cristo:
Tal che in fronte alle turbe infide e stolte,
Che sparsa avean di sè tremenda fama,
L’Ordrisia Luna s’ecclissò più volte;
E sì troncata fu l’iniqua trama
Che la città che le scacciò con l’armi
‘Città Vittoriosa’ ancor si chiama.
Io resi degni di perpetui carmi
Que’ Duci ch’al più Sant’Ordine ascritti
Augusti templi ornar di bronzi e marmi,
E a render più sicuri i patrii dritti
Formar nell’arduo inespugnabil sito
Muniti porti e baluardi invitti.
Io resi industre il popolo imperito,
Tal che per lui nel freddo e nell’ardenza
Lo steril sasso ancor divien fiorito;
E sì lo prosperai di mia presenza
Che, mentre Europa avea miseria e guerra,
Quì fiorivan la pace e l’opulenza.
Io fei cenno da lungi all’Inghilterra,
E commisine il freno a quella destra
Che lo scettro de’ mari in pugno serra.
Ed or che il vizio infetta ogni terreno
Melita che virtù non mai discaccia
La virtù sventurata accoglie in seno.
Tu vi discendi: io ti farò la traccia:
Vedrai, figlio, vedrai come a te inerme
Amorosa accoglienza apra le braccia.
Nè l’aspe infausto e il velenoso verme
Temer del vizio all’altrui danno intesi,
Ch’io là distrussi d’ogni serpe il germe.”
Disse, e su me vibrò più lampi accesi
Che in sen mi ravvivâr gli spirti oppressi;
Nella nube ei si chiuse, a terra io scesi,
E sull’ospite sponda un bacio impressi.
_12 Agosto 1821._
F.
NAPOLEONE A SANT’ELENA
Mira, Ocean, quel principe son io
Temuto in guerra qual fragor del tuono,
Che, a sua voglia togliendo e dando il trono,
Turba d’imbelli rè spinse all’obblio.
Un trono io m’ebbi; e non mel diede in dono
La sognata dai rè grazia di Dio;
A un nume de’ miei pari, al brando mio,
Terror dell’orbe, debitor ne sono.
Il Destin quì mi trasse, e non l’Ispano,
Il Prusso, il gel di Scizia, o i rè tremanti,
Nè il fulmine temprato in Vaticano.
Ma quì pur grande. E dov’è mai chi vanti
Per sua prigione aver l’ampio Oceano,
E per custodi suoi tutt’i regnanti?
1835?
INDEX OF NAMES
A
Abatemarchi, 75
Aberdeen, Lord, 121
Abruzzo Citeriore, 6, 90
Adriatic Sea, 6
Albany Street, 166, London, 109
Alberic, Friar, 40
Alberti, 150
Alexander VI., Pope, 127
Alfieri, 18, 47, 85, 150
Amalfi, 47
Amantea, Bruno d’, 29
America, 15, 81, 82
Amersham, 117
Antrodoco, 51
Arcadi, Academy of the, 36
Ardenti, Academy of the, 36
Arditi, Cavalier, 19, 20
Aretino, Leonardo, 145-50
Ariosto, 73
Aroux, E., 68
---- Dante Hérétique, etc., by, 68, 112
Ascoli, Duke of, 26
Athenæum, The, 89
Attica, 49
Austria, 1, 23, 41, 48, 131-66
Avalloni, Baron Giovanni, 15
B
Balzac, Honoré de, 143
---- Le Livre Mystique, by, 143
Barberini, Francesco, 150
Barclay, 118
Bargello, The, Florence, 144-7
Barile, 117-9
Bas-Valais, 168
Basil, St, 139
Berio, Marchese, 35
Bernard, St, 143
Berni, A., 161
Berri, Duc de, 80
Bezzi, Aubrey, 145-6
Bianchi, 39
Bianco, 157-73
Bilbao, 158
Biondi, 36
Blake, William, 5
Boccaccio, 135-41-51
Boccanera, 17
Bologna, 131
---- University, 121
Bonaparte, Lucian, 15
---- Pierre, 15
---- Princess Charlotte, 15
Borgia, Comendator, 127
Borrelli, 98
Boulton, Captain, 164-5
Bozzelli, 98, 173
Brighton, 117
Browning, Mrs, 157
Buonarroti, Michelangelo, 12, 142, 157
---- Signor, 157-73
Byron, Lord, 117
---- The Corsair, by, 117
C
Caccavon, 39
Cagliari, Archbishop of, 104
Cagnazzi, Archdeacon, 91
Calderari, The, 40
Campi, Don Giuseppe, 20
Campochiaro, Duca di, 35
Canosa, Principe di, 40
Capecelatro, Colonel F., 75
---- Monsignor, 18
Capobianco, 42
Carbonari, The, 40, 41, 42, 44, 48
Carducci, Conte, 127
Caroline, Queen (Bonaparte), 3
Carrascosa, General, 75
Casa Guidi, Florence, 157
Casella, 120
Cassero, Principe di, 35
Castelcicala, Principe di, 74
Castlereagh, Lord, 74, 75
Cecco d’Ascoli, 143
Cerbara, 69
Charles, King of Naples (Bourbon), 1, 178
Charles II., King of Naples, 146
Charles IV., King of Spain, 19 to 22
Charles Albert, King of Sardinia, 94, 95, 96, 166
Charlotte Street, Portland Place, London, 129
Chaucer, 134
Chiabrera, 73
Christian VIII., King of Denmark, 30, 31
Cicero, 47, 136
Ciciloni, Ferdinando, 52, 53
Cimitile, Principe di, 118
Cinelli, 145
Clarges Street, 40, London, 162
Coleridge, S. T., 66
Colletta, General, 40
---- Storia di Napoli, by, 40, 43
Colonna, Vittoria, 12
Concordia, Naples, 56
Constantine the Great, 140
Corsica, 14
Corso, 156
Corunna, 54
Cosenza, 42
Costanza, Dr, 50
Courier, The, 121
Craufurd, 146
Cromwell, Oliver, 134
Crusca, La, 145-6
Curci, Dr, 39, 126
Cyrene, 140
D
Dante, 10, 40, 65, 82, 84, 99, 110-1-2-31-3-4-6-40-3-4-52-4
---- Convito, by, 137
---- Divina Commedia, by, 63, 65, 66, 73, 135-7-9-43
---- Vita Nuova, by, 137-8-9-46-51
D’Avalos, 12
De Luca, Pier, 75
De Tivoli, 132
Delavo, Giovanni A., 156-66
Delécluze, 112
---- Amour du Dante, by, 112
Della Guardia, 7
Denmark, Princess of, 30
Disraeli, Isaac, 66
Donati, Corso, 146-7
Durso, 39
E
Eastlake, Sir C. L., 120-1-5-45, 146-50-4
Eco (L’) di Savonarola, 100
Elizabeth, Queen of Spain (Farnese), 1
England, ix, 5, 44, 62, 65, 66, 68, 81, 82, 90, 105-11-4-31
Erroll, Countess of, 62, 64
Escurial, The, 21
F
Fanciola, 159
Fardella, General, 56, 57, 76
Ferdinand I. (Naples), 2, 3, 12, 13, 19, 21, 22, 24 to 28, 30, 37, 38,
40, 41, 42, 47, 48, 51, 54, 75 to 81, 90, 98,
111-78-82-3
Ferdinand II. (Naples), 13, 98, 122-4-5
Ferdinand VII. (Spain), 21
Fermo, 128
Ferretti, 36
Ferri, Cardinal, 128
---- Signor, 126-8
Festing, Miss, ix, 132
---- J. H. Frere and his Friends, by, ix, 132-3
Filelfo, 145
Finati, Giovanni, 22
Fitch, Mrs, 117-9
Florence, 73, 144-5-50
Florio, 75
Foggia, 42
Foscolo, Ugo, 133
Fouarre, Rue de, Paris, 143
France, 2, 13, 15, 42, 44, 82, 94, 95, 104-31
Francis, Emperor, 2
Fraticelli, 112
Frederick II., Emperor, 133
Frentani, 6
Frere, J. Hookham, 60, 62, 63, 64, 68, 72, 82, 111-22-32-3-6
---- J. Tudor, 132
---- Susan, 62, 64, 122
Frome-Selwood, 108
G
Gaetani, Padre Vincenzo, 10
Galassi, 155-7-8
Galileo, 150
Gallo, Agostino, 25, 26, 28, 29
Gandolfini, Giuseppe, 161
Garibaldi, 92
Garnett, Richard, vii
---- History of Italian Literature, by, ix
Gatti, 38
Gazzola, 91
Gerard Street, 37, London, 76
Gerardi, 73 to 76
Germ, The, 89
Germany, 14, 145
Giannone, 162
Gioberti, Vincenzo, 157-72-3
---- Primato d’Italia, by, 157
Giotto, 144-5
---- Portrait of Dante by, 144-48-53
Giovine Italia, La, 93, 159-60
Gomez-Paloma, Marchesina Luisa, 29
Graham, Mrs, 129
Green, 129
Grey, Lord, 121
H
Hallam, Arthur, 66, 112
Harris and Farquhar, 150
Hatton Garden, London, 155
Heimann, Dr Adolf, 114
Henri IV., 178
Herculaneum, 111
Highgate Cemetery, 113
Holmer Green, Bucks, 117-9-29
Homer, 37
Howard, Mrs, 118
I
Index Librorum Prohibitorum, 67
Inland Revenue Office, 108
Inni e Cantici Cristiani, 70, 73
Italy, ix, 5, 6, 12, 44, 46, 65, 66, 69, 83, 91, 93, 96, 99,
102-3-6-9, 113-8-26-7-31-45-58-60-6-72-84-5
---- Kingdom of, 3, 144-61
Ithome, 49
J
Janer, 126-7-63
Jannelli, General, 42
Jesus Christ, 70, 71, 134-71
Joachim, King of Naples, 3, 15, 20, 22, 24, 29, 36, 37, 42, 52, 111
John, St, 135
Jorio, Canon, 20
Joseph, King of Naples and Spain, 3, 14, 15, 20, 21
Jubar, Baron, 30
K
Keightley, Thomas, 154
Kemble, Adelaide (_see_ Sartoris)
King’s College, London, 72, 83, 107-11-8
Kirkup, Seymour (Barone), 116-44-9
Kotzebue, 80
L
Lablache, 124
Labrador (Minister), 22
Lami, 150
Latini, Brunetto, 146-7
Lausanne, 69
Leopardi, Giacomo, 161
---- Epistle to Pepoli, by, 161
Libri, 157-72
Little Missenden, 117
Locarno, 159
Lombardo-Venetia, 168
Lombardy, 98, 167
London, 15, 32, 36, 39, 67, 71, 72, 74, 76, 85, 92, 98, 108-9-10-2-9,
120-2-8-30-61-5
---- Bishop of (Blomfield), 118
---- University, 83
Louis Philippe, King, 44, 94
Louvel, 80
Lucchesi, Count, 124
Lugo, 127
Lusciano, Duke of (Mollo), 78, 79
Lyell, Charles, 68, 72, 82, 83, 116, 119-24-30-1-2-40-6-52-3
---- Sir Leonard, 130-2
Lyons, 37
M
MacIntyre, 119-20
Magalotti, 136
---- La Donna Immaginaria, by, 136
Malmusi, 157-73
Malpica, Cesare, 39
Malta, 5, 50, 56, 60, 62, 67, 73, 75, 76, 111-22-88
Mamiani, Terenzio, 91
Marchigiana, Marchesa, 126-7
Marengo, 155-66
Maria Caroline, Queen, 2, 3, 13, 24
Maria Theresa, 2
Marie Antoinette, 2
Marini, 147-8
Maroncelli, Dr, 122-4
---- Pietro, 122
Marseilles, 160
Marsuppini, C., 150
Mascagni, 150
Mazzini, 92, 93, 94, 116-55-6-7
Mediterranean Sea, 58
Mendelssohn, Joseph, 66
---- Lectures on Rossetti, by, 66, 112
Messina, 75, 94, 167
Metastasio, 10, 18
Milan, 167
Minasi, 74, 98
Minichini, Abate, 45
Mirandola, Pico della, 142
Molini, 154
Molza, 142
Monte Citorio, Rome, 36
Montecassino, 51
Monteforte, 45
Moore, Lady, 54, 55, 57, 58, 76, 77, 111
---- Sir Graham, 54, 55, 56, 58, 59, 76, 77, 111
---- Sir John, 54
Morelli, 44
Morning Chronicle, 165-6
Museo Borbonico, Naples, 18, 19, 22, 27, 55, 111
Muzzarelli, Monsignor, 91, 127
N
Nannucci, Professor, 146
Naples, 2, 3, 10, 12, 15, 19, 22, 24, 28, 31, 35, 36, 38, 39, 45, 52,
54, 57, 66, 73, 80, 91, 98, 110-1-57, 182
---- Kingdom of, 1, 13, 16, 40, 41, 44, 75, 98
---- University, 38
Napoleon I., 3, 13, 14, 15, 21 to 24, 95, 166-91
Napoleon III., 15, 95, 105
Naselli, General, 27, 28, 30
National British Gallery, 90
Negri, Maestro, 120-1-4
Nelson, Lord, 2
New Testament, 87, 135-40-1
New York, 159
Nile, Battle of, 2
Noja, 25
Nola, 45
Norway, 30
O
Old Testament, 140-1
Oliva, 38
Opinione, L’, 109
Orezia Academy, 37
Origen, 140
Orioli, Professor, 121
Ouseley, Sir Gore, 118
Ovid, 6
P
Paisiello, Giovanni, 29
Palermo, 28
Panizzi, Sir Antonio, 66, 83, 99
Paolelli, 97
Papal States, 166
Paris, 143-55-7-62-4-5-7
Park Square, Regent’s Park, 122-4
Parma, 11, 34
Parthenopean Republic, 2
Paul, St, 135-42-86
Peel, Sir Robert, 121
Pellico, Silvio, 122
---- Le Mie Prigioni, by, 122
Pepe, General Guglielmo, 43, 46, 91, 92, 98, 178
---- Memoirs of, 43
Pepoli, Conte Carlo, 161
Petrarca, 73, 105-35-41
Philip V. (Spain), 1
Pietrocola-Rossetti, Teodorico, ix, 72
---- Memoir of Rossetti, by, ix
Pistrucci, Filippo, 122-5-30-1-55-60 to 163
Pius VII., 36, 111
Pius IX., 96, 101-5-7
Plowden, 150
Poerio, Major, 75
Poland, 119
Polidori, Charlotte, 57, 117-9
---- Eliza, 117-9
---- Gaetano, 85, 86, 87, 117-24
---- Margaret, 126-8
---- Mrs, 87, 120
---- P. Robert, 117-9
Poliziano, 143
Polydore, Henry, 117-9-26
Pompeii, 111
Pontanian Society, Naples, 37
Portinari, Beatrice, 99, 138
Portinari, Folco, 138
Porto-Cannone, 42
Potter, Cipriani, 117-8
Q
Quattromani, Luigi, 31, 33, 34
R
Ragon, 144
Raphael, 142-6
Raphael, Sonnets by, 142
Regaldi, 150
---- Carme a Firenze, by, 150
Reghellini, 134-44
Ricciardi, Conte Giuseppe, 91, 109, 155-63-4-5-7
---- History of Italy, 1850-1900, by, 167
Rieti, 51, 53, 56
Rinuccini, 150
Rochfort, The (Ship), 58
Rolandi, 159
Romagna, 127
Rome, 6, 28, 36, 38, 92, 98, 104, 111-8-27-50
Rossaroll, General, 75
Rossetti, Angiola Maria, 6
Rossetti, Antonio, 6
Rossetti, Canon Andrea, 6, 7, 9
Rossetti, Christina G., ix, 15, 88, 89, 108-9-13-7-9-20-3-4-9
---- Verses (1847), by, 89
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, ix, 7, 88, 89, 90, 106-8-14-7-9-20-3-4-6-8,
130
---- Annunciation, by, 90
---- Blessed Damozel, by, 90
---- Girlhood of Mary Virgin, by, 90
---- Portrait of G. Rossetti, by, 130
Rossetti, Domenico, 6, 8, 11, 34
Rossetti, Elizabeth E., 113
Rossetti, Frances, 86, 87, 88, 106, 108-13-62
Rossetti, Gabriele, Writings by, ix, 101
---- Addio alla Patria, 59, 173
---- Alla Difesa, O Cittadini, 48
---- Arpa Evangelica, 69, 70, 100, 113
---- Aurora del 21 Luglio, 1820, 46, 110-73
---- Beatrice di Dante, 68, 69, 83, 84, 101-12-50 to 153
---- Birth of Hercules, 17
Rossetti, Canto Marziale, 110
---- Catalogue Raisonné, Museo Borbonico, 22
---- Comento Analitico, Dante, 63 to 66, 72, 82, 110-1-2-26-44
---- Giulio Sabino, 17, 18
---- Hannibal in Capua, 17
---- Il Corsaro, 120-1-4
---- Marengo, Verses on, 156
---- Medora e Corrado, 117-8-20
---- Mistero dell’Amor Platonico, 67, 68, 72, 83, 84, 112-40-1-7-9,
151-3
---- Napoleone a Sant’Elena, 23
---- Poems, 1807, 15
---- Ricuperata Salute di Ferdinando I., 25, 26, 28
---- Roma, Secolo 19, 83, 84, 155, 158-9
---- Salterio, 63, 64, 67, 83, 113, 127-54
---- San Paolo in Malta, 61, 173-4
---- Spirito Antipapale, 66, 67, 72, 83, 112-3-20-4-35-44
---- Veggente in Solitudine, 48, 50, 52, 63, 69, 76, 83, 102-13
---- Versi, 1847, 29, 31, 69, 100, 155-63-5
Rossetti, Helen M. M., 156
Rossetti, Maria Francesca, 88, 89, 108-20-4-8-30
---- The Rivulets, by, 89
Rossetti, Maria Francesca (Pietrocola), 6, 8
Rossetti, Maria Giuseppe, 6
Rossetti, Maria Michele, 6, 9
Rossetti, Mary E. M., 15
Rossetti, Nicola, 6, 8, 70
Rossetti, William M., ix, 5, 9, 22, 48, 88, 89, 90, 108-9-19-23
---- Memoir of D. G. Rossetti, by, ix, 11, 79, 114-62
Royal Academy of Music, 117
Ruffo, Cardinal, 2, 74
Russia, 23, 119
S
Saint Helena, 23
Saint Mary’s Church, Vasto, 6
Saliceti, 91
San Carlo Theatre, Naples, 15, 17, 18, 111
San Sebastiano, 52, 53
Sand, 80
Sangiovanni, Benedetto, 122-4-7
Santa Croce Church, Florence, 150
Santa Lucia, Naples, 57
Santander, 158
Sardinia, Kingdom of, 64, 104-5-66
Sartoris, Mrs, 162
Schlegel, 66, 112
Scrope, 121
Sebeto (River), 53
Shelley, P. B., 45
---- Ode to Naples, by, 45
Sicily, 2, 3, 12, 19, 38, 40
Sigier, 143
Silvati, 44
Società Sebezia, Naples, 29, 30, 36, 37
Solari, 30
Soldi, G. B., 161
Spain, 1, 3, 12, 21, 44, 56, 62, 158-9
Spectator, The (Newspaper), 108-9
Spielberg, The, 122
Spontini, 150
Stanford, 57
Strozzi (Mazzini), 173
Stuart, Lady Dudley, 15
Suetonius, 20
Swedenborg, 141-3-4
Switzerland, 159
Sylvester, Pope, 140
Synesius, 140
T
Tallent, 119-20
Tasso, 29, 37, 73, 143
Taylor Institute, Oxford, 132
Taylor, J. E., 146
---- Michelangelo as a Philosophical Poet, by, 147
Tennyson, 112
---- In Memoriam, by, 112
Tertullian, 140
Tiber, The, 35
Tiberine Academy, 36
Ticino, Canton of, 168
Tommaseo, 157-72
Tommasi, 27
Trajan, 20, 21
---- Statue of, 20
Turin, 173
Turin, Archbishop of, 104
Turkey, 145
Turrigo, General, 97
Tuscany, 98
Two Sicilies, Kingdom of, 1
Tyrtæus, 49
U
University College, London, 83, 114
Ururi, 42
Utrecht, 1
V
Valletta, 29
Vantini, 155-7-8-9
Vardarelli, Brothers, 42
Vasari, Giorgio, 145
Vasto, 6 to 9, 65, 110-3
Vasto, Marchese del, 12, 110
Vecchioni, 66, 112
Venice, 91, 92
Vernon, Lord, 154
Verona, 21
Vezzi, Signora, 11
Villani, Francesco, 145
Villani, Odoardo, 161
Virgil, 37
W
Wellington, Duke of, 120-1
William IV., 120-1
Z
Zatta, 137
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED
EDINBURGH
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Of Nicola Rossetti and Francesca Pietrocola, a respected married
couple, I was born in Vasto, a city in Abruzzo Citeriore, in the
year 1783. My brothers, all senior to me, were Andrea, Antonio,
and Domenico. The first, admired for his pulpit-eloquence, became
a Canon of the Collegiate Church of St Mary, the principal church
in the city. The other two, endowed with much poetical talent, have
left good evidence of this in their compositions. I had also three
sisters--Angiola Maria, Maria Giuseppe, and Maria Michele. The first
died unmarried; the other two married.
[2] I had various masters in the first rudiments of literature;
but none was of so much benefit to me as the one who started me in
“philosophy,” and who also nurtured in me the taste for poetry. He was
a Regular Priest of that province, and he died in Naples at a somewhat
early age. I shall always bless the name of Padre Vincenzo Gaetani.
[3] Now on _my_ hands: one specimen forms our frontispiece. I have
spoken of this matter in my _Memoir of Dante Gabriel Rossetti_, pp.
5 and 6, and I know that my father’s statement concerning it is not
exaggerated. He executed also, towards 1804, a miniature of himself,
of which, writing to his brother Domenico, he speaks in the following
terms:--“A miniature portrait of myself, the work of my own hand when
I exercised myself much in the fine art which imitates visible truths.
I was at that time fresher-looking, and perhaps rather plumper, and
slightly paler; before the sanguine-choleric temperament obtained the
mastery in me with that vigour which it now displays. All who have seen
it aver that it is truly myself.” This miniature used once to be in the
possession of a Signora Vezzi of Parma: I know not where it may now
be.--W.
[4] The Marquis who brought me to Naples was Tommaso, of the famous and
very ancient house of D’Avalos, which was transplanted from Spain to
Italy. [It was the same family as that into which the sixteenth-century
poetess, Vittoria Colonna, beloved by Michelangelo, married.--W.]
[5] Joseph Bonaparte (I need hardly observe) was not strictly a
Frenchman. He was a Corsican, of Corsican or Italian parentage, born
before Corsica had become a French possession. He was thus an Italian,
naturalized as a Frenchman.--W.
[6] My first volume of poems, printed in Naples in 1807, was dedicated
by me to Baron Giovanni Avalloni, who, upon hearing me recite some
of the compositions, voluntarily offered to have the whole of them
printed. That volume, which was never re-issued, must have become very
scarce. [I possess an imperfect copy of it. The poems--some of them
poor, and not any exactly good--deal partly with national events, and
this naturally in a spirit conformable to the Napoleonic _régime_.
There are some strong animadversions on the Bourbon monarchy.--W.] My
dramas, written for the Theatre of San Carlo, were printed at the time;
were they collected together, they would make up a volume.
King Joseph and King Joachim have been depicted by grave historians,
and I will not add anything regarding their public and private
character. But, for truth’s sake, I may say that here in London I was
very well acquainted with Joseph Bonaparte, after he had returned
from America in 1831, and that I found many personal gifts in him to
admire. In his house I saw a good deal not only of him but of his
brother Lucian, his nephew Louis (the present President of the French
Republic), Lucian’s daughter Lady Dudley Stuart, with whom I became
intimately acquainted, and who, at the baptismal font, gave her own
name, Christina, to my younger daughter. I might say that I have known
all the members of that renowned family, either in Naples or in London,
except the great Napoleon, whom I never saw. Joseph was kind-natured
and cultivated in mind; but in Naples, spoiled by courtiers, he was
a bad king. One evening, while I was improvising in his house, his
daughter, Princess Charlotte, made a pencil sketch of me, and she sent
it me framed as a present: I still preserve it. [I also have preserved
it, and have given it to my youngest daughter.--W.] I could here relate
many dialogues which I had with Lucian, his son Pierre, etc., and with
the present French President. But I will only say that Lucian was a
republican, but with many prejudices, and the present President was and
is of a character all puffed up with ambition. Never did I hear from
his lips a single word indicating a liberal spirit.
[7] I possess the printed _Giulio Sabino_, 1809; not the other two
libretti.--W.
[8] One may suppose it to have been at first a _very_ subordinate post;
for the pay, I find, was only 15 ducats a month, which appears to be
£31, 2s. 6d. a year. Later on it was 28 ducats a month.--W.
[9] Of the very many incidents which occurred to me in the Royal
Museum, and which might furnish matter for anecdote, I will state in
prose the following. In the year 1816 [it must have been in 1819, that
being the year in which Charles IV. died.--W.] there came to Naples
Charles IV., ex-King of Spain, elder brother of Ferdinand, King of
Naples. The latter had also been numbered as fourth; then in Sicily he
became third, and finally, on his return, he was declared first; and in
his island-kingdom this epigram, almost prophetic, had been neatly made
upon him:--
“Fourth thou wast and now art Third:--
By subtraction’s rule I’m taught--
Second--First--may yet be heard,
Till at last remains a nought.”
When King Charles came to visit the Museum--announced by a formal
dispatch, the beating of drums, and a call to arms by the piquette
stationed at the gate--we presented ourselves to receive him, with
Cavalier Arditi, Director-General of the institution, at our head. The
first section which is ordinarily inspected there is the collection of
statues in marble and bronze, both Latin and Greek--a most important
department on the ground floor, entrusted to my custody. Thus it
became my work to show first those admired treasures to the Spanish
monarch, who spoke Italian very fairly. In the discharge of my office
I pointed out to him the leading objects; and I recollect that in the
first portico I stopped before the statue of Trajan, and I referred to
his rare excellences, saying that he had been the honour of the Roman
Empire and of the Spanish nation. “What, was Trajan a Spaniard?” he
exclaimed with surprise. “Certainly, your majesty, if Suetonius and
other historians did not deceive us.” [_N.B._--“Suetonius” appears to
have been a random shot; he has left us nothing about Trajan.--W.] He
visited the three porticoes and the five galleries, and showed much
pleasure in my explanations. Having gone through the whole, I said
that others would have the honour of showing him the picture-gallery,
the Etruscan vases, the bronze implements, the collection of papyri,
and the immense library, which were kept in the upper apartments. He
said in a determined tone, “Come yourself.” I felt much embarrassed
in obeying, because I knew how jealous were Don Giuseppe Campi, Canon
Jorio, and others, if any one encroached on their departments, and
especially on so solemn an occasion; but I made a bow and obeyed.
He remained on that long visit upwards of four hours, and, highly
satisfied, he left. The following day, towards the same hour, a fresh
beating of drums and a fresh call to arms announced a visitor of
importance. It was again the King of Spain. On his arrival I alone
received him, as neither Cavalier Arditi nor any one else had been
apprised by a dispatch, as on the preceding day, of this unexpected
visit. Entering my small apartment, he asked for a seat, which I at
once gave him. He sat down, and affably added, “Sit down also,” and,
seeing that I hesitated, “Sit down, sit down,” he repeated. He said
that he had returned to re-inspect some of the objects which had most
struck him the previous day, and chiefly the Emperor Trajan--adding:
“Now that I know he was a Spaniard, tell me all you know about him.”
And I failed not to inform him that that Emperor, elected by the
unanimous vote of the Roman Army, was surnamed Optimus; and that after
his death, at the election of every new Cæsar, the senate installed
him in the Empire with the salutation, “Sis bonus ut Trajanus, sis
felix ut Augustus.” That on his accession to the throne he entered
Rome on foot, to denote his disregard of worldly pomp; that, confident
in the love of the entire nation, he abolished the offence of high
treason; that he embraced any persons who came to visit him, and had
his residence inscribed “Public Palace,” in order that all might
enter without the least scruple, as though the house were their own.
In short, I narrated what history sets down about him. On the third
day the King renewed his visit. He remained alone with me, as on the
preceding day, and, assuming a more confidential tone, he enquired
whether I was married. I replied, No. He then told me that a Congress
of Sovereigns was about to assemble in Verona, at which he meant to
claim his throne which had been usurped by his son, with whom he
showed himself very much displeased. “If I return to Spain, of which
I am almost certain,” he added, “you shall come with me, and I will
make you Director of the Escurial.” “But, your sacred Majesty, so many
distinguished Spaniards--” “The one who is there now is my enemy, and
I mean to dismiss him.”--“But I am in employ here, and your august
brother--”--“Oh, I spoke to him about that last evening, and he will
willingly concede you to my wishes.” I bowed, and thanked him for so
much good-will. But a few days passed, and Charles IV. lay a frigid
corpse in his brother’s palace. He was a simple, kindly man, given to
talking, and he held with others the same sort of conversation that
he had held with me. His right was manifest, and his son schemed to
get rid of him by means of his Minister Labrador. This was the rumour
which then ran through Naples. I could relate many other anecdotes
of what happened to me in the Museum, but I leave them alone. I will
only mention that I elucidated those admired monuments in two volumes
entitled _Catalogue Raisonné of the Royal Museum_. In order to give
some credit to a young man whom I liked much--Giovanni Finati, son of
the Controller--I allowed him to have his name on the title-page, with
the condition that the two volumes should be printed at his expense,
while the receipts from the sale should be halved between us. After
my departure he took advantage of my misfortune, and wholly defrauded
me of that labour of mine. The profits became and are entirely his;
whereas he had no share in the work, except only the measuring of the
statues and busts--nothing else. [I possess the book in question.--W.]
[10] This vigorous tirade against the mighty Napoleon, written in
Rossetti’s old age, is no doubt a true expression of his reasoned
opinion, but only of one side of that. It should not be supposed that
he was really blind to the enormous and many-sided genius of the man;
if he condemned, he also most sincerely admired. See the sonnet at p.
191.--W.
[11] This poem by Rossetti forms one in a series bearing the following
title: _Per la Ricuperata Salute di S. M. Ferdinando I., Attestato
di Gioia della Società Sebezia. Napoli, 1819._ Agostino Gallo (named
immediately afterwards) contributed a Sapphic ode. Of course the name
Gallo means “Cock”: Corvo (“Raven,” or bird of ill-omen) is jocularly
proposed as a substitute.--W.
[12] I have read this ode for the express purpose of discovering what
Signor Gallo objected to, and can only see this. There are certain
stanzas in which the overpraise (too truly termed “flatteries” by
the author) takes the form of remonstrance. The King is told that
the nation, in loving him, do in fact love _themselves_; that the
public happiness demands that he should be duly careful of his
invaluable life; and that, at his age, he must not persist in incessant
hunting.--W.
[13] What I relate of Agostino Gallo, of Palermo, is strictly accurate;
I confirm in prose what I have stated in verse.
[14] This relates to events in the time of King Joachim.--W.
[15] This poem is printed in the _Versi_ of Rossetti (Lausanne, 1847).
It begins, “Tu posi, o giusto, ed io ti seggo al fianco.”--W.
[16] Valletta was a lawyer and a poet. “Fair Paloma” was the Marchesina
Luisa Gomez-Paloma, an associate of the Sebezian Society. The verses
(which begin “Parmi vederti ancor quando animata”) indicate that she
was accomplished both as a vocalist and as a painter.--W.
[17] This is also in the _Versi_. Begins--“Dunque muto per sempre ahi
muto resta.”--W.
[18] Similar remark. Begins--“Sei tu che in questa riva a te natia.”--W.
[19] All that I relate here and in the following Canto is strict
matter of fact. The Prince Royal of Denmark, who was afterwards King
[Christian VIII., who came to the throne in 1839--W.], and is now dead,
was enrolled in the Società Sebezia as an honorary member; and on that
evening when the bust of Torquato Tasso was inaugurated--a fine work
by Signor Solari of Naples,--he was seated, along with all the other
Academicians, beside General Naselli, the honorary President. He was
so impressed by my composition (which formed the close of the stately
proceedings) that he said, embracing me, “May I ask a favour of you?
I should like to have a copy of your poem to present to the Princess,
who, owing to indisposition, was not able to come this evening.”--“I
shall attend to it immediately, and to-morrow you shall receive it.”
That royal couple was held in the highest esteem by all. The Prince,
a man of masculine and imposing presence, had fought with signal
courage against the French, especially in the forests of Norway. The
Princess, a lady of extreme grace and beauty, was universally admired
and praised. Next morning I rose early and copied out the poem; and
hardly had I completed the work (rather a long one, 54 octaves) when
I received a note from Baron Jubar, the Prince’s majordomo, to remind
me of my promise, and invite me to dine with the royal couple the
following day. At table were all the foreign ambassadors, and other
diplomatists. This occurred, so far as I recollect, towards the
beginning of 1820. The Prince invited me various times; and about the
end of that year--when the revolution and the King’s departure had
already occurred--one evening after dinner he called me aside, and
said: “As it is our intention to pass the rest of the winter in several
cities of North Italy, would not you come with us, to instruct the
Princess in your beautiful language?”--“But, your Highness, I am here
employed.”--“I have already spoken to the Minister of the Interior, who
will grant you leave for six months.” A fierce lightning-flash seemed
to strike my mind, and I comprehended that the King was betraying us.
The Prince, cautioned through some diplomatic channel to quit Naples
(as in fact he did), wished to withdraw me from that political danger
in which he perceived me to be greatly entangled. With these sinister
thoughts, I replied thanking him for an offer which highly honoured
me, and saying that I would soon apprise him of my decision. On the
following day I wrote to him that, in the peril to which my country
would soon be exposed, I should be stained with cowardice if I left it;
and that I therefore felt compelled to decline accompanying him in the
proposed tour, an honour which in any other conditions I would gladly
have welcomed. Nor do I repent of what I then did.
[20] The Sapphic ode is likewise in the _Versi_. It begins--“Furon
tristi, O Luigi, i giorni tuoi.”--W.
[21] He died in Parma in July 1816, aged forty-three. The paralysis
which killed him had been going on for about a twelvemonth. My father
had himself more than one stroke of paralysis in his closing years.--W.
[22] Of Biondi I cannot say anything distinct: Ferretti continued
corresponding with Rossetti, in very affectionate terms, after the
latter had settled in London.--W.
[23] I may mention that, besides performing this service under the
Government of King Joachim, Rossetti was enrolled in his National
Guard (or Guard of Internal Security) in Naples. I have a document,
15th December 1814, which shows this. His berth in Rome has been
termed by him elsewhere “a provisional post in the Secretariate of
the Provisional Government, being the post which concerns Public
Instruction and the Fine Arts.”--W.
[24] This occurred in 1817.--W.
[25] Dr Curci, who had a passionate attachment to my father, came to
London to see him towards 1836; Durso also I can remember as having
visited him towards 1840. “Cesare Malpica” is a name I often heard him
pronounce; of Caccavon I am not able to say anything.--W.
[26] The statements here made about the Principe di Canosa are not
inventions; they will be found confirmed in Colletta’s _Storia del
Regno di Napoli_, Book viii. Canosa’s scheme amounted (in general
terms) to an attempt to get up in 1816 a massacre of the Carbonari and
their sympathizers, by a hostile sect named the Calderari.--W.
[27] Consigned to eternal infamy by Dante.--W.
[28] Rossetti was a Carbonaro; but (I understand) he was not enrolled
in that secret society until the second half of the year 1820, when,
as the constitution had been already granted by the King, there was
nothing illegal in his being a member. The word Carbonaro means
literally “coalman, charcoal-burner”: hence certain technical terms of
the sect, occurring further on.--W.
[29] Gaetano Vardarelli, with his two brothers, commanded a formidable
band of brigands (who may or may not have been Carbonari): the whole
band was generally called the Vardarelli. In July 1817 the Government
entered into a dishonouring compromise with these brigands; but soon
afterwards, at Ururi, slaughtered the three Vardarelli and others by
treachery, and, later on, others of the disbanded band at Foggia,
and the remainder underwent military execution. A grimly Italian
incident accompanied the massacre of the brothers Vardarelli. One of
the brothers had outraged the sister of a man from Porto-Cannone. This
man dipped his hands repeatedly in the blood gushing from the corpse,
washed his face in it, and cried to the multitude, “L’ho purgata” (I’ve
washed it clean).--W.
[30] For Capobianco’s judicial murder King Joachim (not Ferdinand)
was responsible; it took place in 1813. Capobianco was a Carbonaro,
young, and of very daring spirit. He was invited by General Jannelli
to a public dinner in Cosenza, well feasted, seized at the moment of
departure, and next day condemned to be beheaded.--W.
[31] What I state here is matter of general knowledge; and, relating as
it does to public events of that agitated period, it belongs more to
history than to biography. Those authors should therefore be consulted
who have treated of it; among whom I recommend the valuable Memoirs of
General Guglielmo Pepe, who was greatly concerned in the occurrences,
in preference to the elegant History of General Pietro Colletta, who,
whether through mis-information or through distorting envy, is not
always a veracious narrator. I have been intimately acquainted with
both these writers; but more than either I prize sacred Truth; and
the little which I state in this note is consequent upon most candid
examination.
[32] This remark relates mainly, though not exclusively, to the
condition of France, 1830 to 1848, under King Louis Philippe--a
potentate whom Rossetti most heartily abhorred.--W.
[33] These were two sub-lieutenants of cavalry; after the abolition of
the constitution they were both hanged.--W.
[34] I saw Minichini once or twice in my father’s house--probably
towards 1840. His personal appearance was anything but
prepossessing.--W.
[35] This pæan may seem misapplied, considering the rapid collapse of
the Neapolitan emancipation of 1820. That movement was, however, the
first awakening of the Italian national sentiment since 1815, and in
1859 (though Gabriele Rossetti did not live to see it) the great cause
had triumphed. Readers may recollect that Shelley’s _Ode to Naples_
celebrates in exalted terms these same events of 1820.--W.
[36] Rossetti refers here to his most celebrated ode, beginning “Sei
pur bella cogli astri sul crine.” I quote it on p. 177.--W.
[37] I wrote several patriotic odes for that great event of the
revolution of Naples, and I will here name two, which are introduced
into my _Veggente in Solitudine_. They begin thus--
“Sei pur bella cogli astri sul crine”--
“Fratelli, all’armi, all’armi!”
I also composed more than sixty manifestoes upon various occurrences;
they circulated in print throughout the whole Carboneria, in which
I was a member of the General Assembly; likewise a brochure of some
length entitled _Alla Difesa, O Cittadini_. This inflamed all hearts,
when the treachery of the perfidious Bourbon King came to be known.
[I possess the brochure in question. It was printed towards the end
of 1820, at the time when Ferdinand I. was still professing to adhere
cordially to the Constitution, notwithstanding the threatening attitude
assumed by Austria. Consequently the tone of the author is highly
respectful towards Ferdinand, at the same time that the nation is urged
to prepare energetically for a war--possible, though as yet not exactly
probable--against Austria.--W.]
[38] Sir Graham Moore, brother of the famous General Sir John Moore,
who died in the field in the campaign of Corunna. The brothers might
truly be called _duo fulmina belli_.
[39] The house in which I kept needfully concealed for three months is
in the Concordia quarter. Opposite it was a meagre invalid, who posted
himself all day at the window, to peer at whatever was going on in the
neighbourhood--which prevented me from getting a little fresh air. One
day, from the shadowed inside of my room, I saw that a funeral-car
stopped at his door. I perceived he must be dead, and I was glad of
it--why conceal the fact? My prying bugbear being gone, I felt more at
liberty, and I wrote for him the following epigrammatic epitaph:--
“Here lies a man of prying peering art,
Who in other folk’s affairs made endless pother:
And he from this world did at last depart,
Merely to fathom what is done in t’other.”
[I may add that on 18th March 1821, midway between the military
disaster at Rieti on 7th March, and the dissolution of the Parliament
on 21st March, Rossetti procured a Neapolitan passport for either
Spain or Malta; but it seems that he never attempted to use it, but
lay _perdu_ instead, until shipped off to Malta by Admiral Sir Graham
Moore.--W.]
[40] It appears that one of these officers was named Stanford. My aunt,
Charlotte Polidori, being in Naples in 1840, knew something of a Mr
Stanford, who (as she wrote) “knew Rossetti well; it was on _his_ arm
that he leaned when, dressed as an English officer, he went on board.
He would have been put to death, had he not left, merely on account
of his political opinions--on no other subject could a word be said
against him.”--W.
[41] I remember that, when I set off in the coach between the two
English officers, as we passed before the royal palace to reach Santa
Lucia where the skiff awaited, a police inspector exclaimed--“By God!
the man in the middle looks to me like Rossetti!” But the coach passed
rapidly on, and a few moments afterwards I found myself in the skiff,
and then in the ship.
[42] The flagship, a first-class man-of-war. [Rossetti Italianizes
the name into Roccaforte, and then proceeds to some _jeux de mots on
Rocca_ (which in Italian means fortress). I have had to take the second
syllable, fort, for a like purpose.--W.]
[43] The allusion is to the justly-admired lyric by Rossetti,
commencing “Nella notte più serena.” See p. 182.--W.
[44] No doubt this is true; the practice of dictation having been
frequently adopted by my father after the sight of one eye had been
lost totally, and of the other partially. However, the copy of the poem
from which I am translating is all in his own handwriting; and very
good handwriting it is, though done with some perceptible effort.--W.
[45] The chief poem thus improvised was _San Paolo in Malta_. See p.
186.--W.
[46] What I indicate regarding the Right Honourable J. Hookham Frere
is far less than the truth. The life of that admirable and exemplary
man ought to be written. [This was done in publications of the years
1871 and 1899.--W.] All Malta was full of his munificences, and still
resounds his praise; and, when in the sequel I quitted that island
for England, I found wide-spread confirmation of his repute as a most
erudite man, and a genuine Christian. After being English Ambassador in
Spain, he settled in Malta, with his sister Susan, to watch over the
health of his invalid wife in a mild climate: there he had the grief of
losing them both. Oh what excellent women those were! Early in 1846 he
himself, struck by apoplexy, closed his beneficent life.
[47] A reference to the progress of constitutional liberty in the
Sardinian kingdom.--W.
[48] The name of Minasi was known to me from boyhood; but I am unable
to say much about him, or to account in detail for the singular burst
of rage and obloquy (here abridged) which my father bestows upon him.
He held in London some official appointment (perhaps consular) from the
Neapolitan Government, and refugees were prone to speaking of him as a
spy--as to which, see p. 98.--W.
[49] Two members of the Ruffo family were conspicuous as Bourbon
devotees from 1799 onwards. The Cardinal was the more important and
celebrated; but I think the Principe di Castelcicala is here meant. He
was an Ambassador, and as such he lived in London for some years during
my father’s sojourn.--W.
[50] General Rossaroll headed, in 1821, a short-lived insurrection in
Messina.--W.
[51] General Michele Carrascosa took a leading part in the events of
1820-21 in the Kingdom of Naples. His conduct was not wholly approved
by the constitutional party.--W.
[52] I do not distinctly recognize this name, nor those of Florio and
de Luca.--W.
[53] This must be Colonel Francesco Capecelatro, who was excepted from
the amnesty granted by the King in September 1822. Thirteen persons in
all were excepted; Rossetti figured as the thirteenth.--W.
[54] More than one member of the Poerio family suffered in these
Neapolitan turmoils. The one who went to Malta was, I think, a major in
the army.--W.
[55] The _Veggente in Solitudine_. Rossetti, I gather, embarked from
Malta in January 1824, and reached London in April. His first London
residence was No. 37 Gerard Street, Soho.--W.
[56] I, of course, do not know whether this statement regarding
Ferdinand I. is accurate or not. My father, I am sure, believed it: I
more than once heard him recount it by word of mouth.--W.
[57] I know at least five of these. They are neat, and cannot have been
gratifying to the Lord of Lusciano. Here is one:
“I read that tragedy whereof you wist;
And wept in pity ... for the dramatist.”--W.
[58] Literally, “will know how to pierce.” Sand (as it may be hardly
requisite to say) was a German student who on political grounds
assassinated the poet Kotzebue; Louvel, a Frenchman who assassinated
the Duc de Berri, heir to the French throne.
[59] Mr Lyell died in 1849.--W.
[60] The London University, consisting of University College and King’s
College. Rossetti competed for the Italian Professorship in the former,
but Panizzi obtained it; afterwards (1831) in the latter, and there he
was elected.--W.
[61] This phrase must designate the _Salterio_, though the term
would almost equally apply to the _Veggente in Solitudine_. The
three prose works mentioned in the sequel are the _Mistero dell’Amor
Platonico_, the _Beatrice di Dante_, and _Roma verso la Metà del Secolo
Decimonono_. This last, though separately published, is in fact a long
note printed in the _Amor Platonico_.--W.
[62] _i.e._ “a new life.”--W.
[63] Not only in writing, but also in conversation, all matters of this
sort were left in oblivion by my father. I, at any rate, never heard
him refer to them, even distantly.--W.
[64] This is perfectly accurate. Mrs Rossetti shrank from being
eulogized in verse which might one day be published, and I have known
her to plead for the omission of some such matter written by my father.
To me, naturally, it is as pleasant to publish these not exaggerated
praises as to her it was unpleasant to conceive them published.--W.
[65] The date of the proposal was 7th December 1825; of the wedding
(Roman Catholic and English Church), 8th and 10th April 1826.--W.
[66] Taken literally, this is of course correct. But my mother had only
an ordinary modicum of musical practice and aptitude, and neither of my
sisters pursued the art with any zest.--W.
[67] The reference to “ethics” must be chiefly based on Maria
Rossetti’s religious allegory named _The Rivulets_, semi-published in
1846. As to Christina, her volume entitled _Verses_ had been privately
printed in 1847, and the poems which she contributed to _The Germ_
(following a brace in _The Athenæum_) appeared in 1850.--W.
[68] These expressions need not count as an exaggeration. By 1850
Dante Gabriel had exhibited two pictures (one of them now in the
National British Gallery); he had published _The Blessed Damozel_ and
other remarkable poems, and had done a multitude of translations from
Italian, and some from German, poets.--W.
[69] I question whether my father was right in supposing me to resemble
him in person; I should say that, of the two, Dante Gabriel resembled
him more. I have suppressed some lines representative of fatherly
fondness more than of myself.--W.
[70] The Conte Giuseppe Ricciardi was a prominent Republican
politician, an attached friend of Rossetti. He exerted himself
incessantly in the Italian cause; his death took place towards 1885.
Terenzio Mamiani was an admired writer in verse and prose; Monsignor
Muzzarelli a very open-minded churchman. Cagnazzi (I presume the same
person) is spoken of by General Guglielmo Pepe as the “venerable
archdeacon Luccado Samuele Cagnazzi, a profound and learned economist,”
who became President of the Neapolitan Parliament in 1848. The other
names, Saliceti and Gazzola, are identified by me less clearly than
probably they ought to be. Pepe, the hero of Venice in 1848-9, was the
same who had been the hero of Naples in 1820.--W.
[71] I cannot elucidate this matter of Paolelli and Turrigo.--W.
[72] Bozzelli became Minister of the Interior in Naples in 1848, when
Ferdinand II. pretended to re-commence a constitutional government;
he was afterwards Prime Minister, conniving in the cause of reaction.
During the brief simulation of constitutionalism, General Pepe had much
influence over the Government, and he advocated the recall of Rossetti
to Naples. My father was nearly on the brink of returning thither, with
his family, when the Liberal movement was quenched in blood. The other
minister here mentioned, Borrelli, belongs to the earlier constitution
of 1820-21; he was Minister of Police, and persuaded the Parliament to
authorize the departure of Ferdinand I. from Naples; an event which
was pretty soon followed by the repeal of the constitution, and the
proscription of its abettors.--W.
[73] This diatribe is directed against Sir Antonio Panizzi, whose name
is in the original, given at the close of it: I reduce it here to a
comparative trifle, but have not thought it desirable to miss it out
entirely. My father considered that, for some reason or none, Panizzi
had from the first been ill-disposed towards him; and this feeling was
strengthened when Panizzi published an article (or articles) opposing,
and partly ridiculing, my father’s theories concerning Dante, etc. I
am not sure that I ever read the articles; probably they were bitter
(for Panizzi was the reverse of mealy-mouthed); but, when a man says
that Beatrice did not exist, and that Dante was a sort of Freemason,
he must expect that people who are of a contrary opinion will express
themselves forcibly.--W.
[74] They might rather be called notebooks than volumes.--W.
[75] This seems to refer to the volume named--_Versi_, 1847; also to
poems contributed to an Italian Protestantizing magazine, _L’Eco di
Savonarola_.--W.
[76] Pius IX.--W.
[77] My father lost totally, and very suddenly, the sight of one eye.
After that he was in constant danger of losing also the sight of the
other eye, and he often expected that this would soon be lost. He
did, however, to the end of his life, retain a much enfeebled modicum
of eyesight. In the _expectation_ of becoming wholly blind, he often
spoke and wrote of himself as blind--an exaggeration, but a pardonable
one.--W.
[78] The poem _The Seer in Solitude_ (_Il Veggente in Solitudine_) has
been previously mentioned. It is true that some of the ideas presented
in that poem as visions or presages--as to the liberation of Italy,
etc.--were getting “daily verified” even in Rossetti’s lifetime, and
much more conspicuously so a few years afterwards.--W.
[79] Rossetti here, and in some other parts of the Autobiography,
speaks of himself in an _exalté_ tone, as imbued with a spirit of
prophecy, an instrument in the divine hand for combating despotism,
etc. All this would have seemed forced and presumptuous to a reader
of his own day; yet it was not a mere distempered dream. In less than
ten years from the date of his writing, the thunderbolt had fallen,
and Italian despots and Papal temporal dominion were in the agonies of
dissolution.--W.
[80] Rossetti here dilates (at a length which I have much curtailed)
on a matter now perhaps well-nigh forgotten, the exile in 1850 of the
Archbishops of Turin and Cagliari for obstructing certain laws passed
by the Piedmontese Parliament as a check upon the privileges of the
Church.--W.
[81] “He unites the advantages of two rivals--Mars in strength, Adonis
in beauty.”
[82] _Gergo._ The word might be translated as “slang” or “jargon”; but
each of these words conveys a rather incongruous idea to an English
mind, so I say (here and elsewhere) “the sect-language.”
[83] Rossetti’s volume _Lo Spirito Antipapale che produsse la Riforma_.
[84] “L’illusione è sì grande che scuote.” I understand the meaning to
be as here rendered; but the phrase is not entirely clear.
[85] “Not I, if I had a hundred mouths and a hundred tongues, with iron
lungs and iron breast.”
[86] This odd-seeming phrase offers no difficulty to the reader of the
_Vita Nuova_. Dante there says that Beatrice had a special analogy with
the number nine, and was (in a sense) a nine, or a three times three,
whereof the root was the Holy Trinity.
[87] Rossetti’s letter, next before the present one, is dated 13th
December 1836. It would seem (looking to dates) that Mr Lyell’s
acknowledgment of being convinced cannot have applied to anything
contained in that letter, but to something in the proofs, then passing
through his hands, of the _Mistero dell’Amor Platonico_.
[88] _i.e._ “To remember is a sweet thought, and I rejoice.” My father
proceeds here to quote the entire sonnet, underlining some words, and
offering brief comments. I question whether the English reader would
thank me for reproducing the whole. As regards the other (second)
sonnet which follows, I give the whole of the octave, with comments.
[89] Translation: “As Paul, when he had descended from heaven, could
not speak of the arcana of God, so my heart has covered all my thoughts
with an amorous veil. Wherefore, for joy which I hide in my heart,
I keep silence as to all that I saw and all that I did; and I shall
change the hair on my brow sooner than guilty thoughts shall ever
reverse the obligation.” I have translated the last line in conformity
with the annotation made by my father, which runs thus: “‘Che mai
pensier rei volger possano in me l’obbligo’ to keep silence, as he has
said.” I feel, however, some considerable doubt whether this is the
true order of the words, which are, as a matter of mere construing,
anything but clear. It might be possible to attempt some conjectural
emendation in the words, but I forbear.
[90] These words come from Dante’s _Paradiso_: “In Rue du Fouarre,
syllogizing invidious truths.”
[91] Mr Taylor was a member of the firm that printed Rossetti’s _Amor
Platonico_. His book was, I think, _Michelangelo considered as a
Philosophic Poet_.
[92] _i.e._ The _Mistero dell’Amor Platonico_--which was dedicated to
Mr Kirkup.
[93] By the phrase “your circumstances” Mazzini, I think, refers not so
much to moderate pecuniary means, but rather to the fact that Rossetti,
maintaining himself and his family by the teaching of Italian in
private families and schools, could not with any prudence put himself
forward as a revolutionary agitator. I am satisfied that he did _not_
join the Association named by Mazzini.
[94] The Conte Carlo Pepoli, a member of an ancient and highly
distinguished Bolognese family, was then a political exile in London.
He ultimately became a Senator of the Italian Kingdom. An epistle
in verse had, in his youth, been addressed to him by the great poet
Leopardi.
[95] Adelaide Kemble, afterwards Mrs Sartoris.
[96] He was, I think, a music-master in Paris.
[97] The address (as noted down by my mother on Mazzini’s letter) was
No. 40 Clarges Street.
[98] As I have mentioned in my published Memoir of Dante Gabriel
Rossetti, my father spoke at this Anniversary-meeting, followed by
Mazzini.
[99] This must have been a _different_ celebration from that in which
Signor Delavo was concerned. The latter was fixed for 14th May, the
anniversary of the Battle of Marengo.
[100] King Charles Albert, of Piedmont, who had to abdicate in 1849.
[101] Mazzini’s word (indistinctly written) appears to be “raccolta,”
which frequently means “harvest,” but may probably here mean
“subscription.” Perhaps it was a public subscription for reinstating
amnestied emigrants in the Papal States.
[102] The Italian word looks something like “compatisci,” which
corresponds to “excuse”; I am not certain about it.
[103] General Guglielmo Pepe.
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